


Chaos Theory

by orphan_account



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-25 17:05:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 51,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Blaine Anderson was twelve years old, his parents started sending him to spend time with his grandmother during the summer in Encino, California. A very devoutly religious woman, Mrs. Anderson saw some troubling behavior in her grandson, and in her concern, began sending him to the head facilities of the National Association for Research & Therapy of Homosexuality (NARTH). Four years later, with the help of his best friend, Trent, Blaine moved out of his parent’s home to live with Trent’s cousin, Suzy, in Lima, Ohio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Aversion therapy, verbal abuse, depression. This story covers heavy subject material and tries not to pull punches, so be warned.

_They say that it’s the wise decisions, the careful and thoroughly thought, that keep us from living. That fatalistic frame of mind which tells us, either this ends someday, or it will be all that we ever know, and we don’t trust in the latter to take place because forever is that impossible shade of gold that rests beyond the horizon, never reached no matter how fast we run — so we stop before we even begin. If all of our choices are based on experience, then we are doomed to failure, because every affair will have had its end, every love will have ended in heartbreak. And so we don’t live, too afraid of bruised knees to ever dare and take that leap into the unknown._  
  
It’s a shame, because without that jump, we can never learn to fly.

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**  
 _August 18th, 2011_  
  
There was a unique joy to be found in stopping by the public library as summer wound lazily to an end, the breezes which cut through carrying with them the wet scent of heavy leaves that would soon blanket Lima in shades of bronze and gold. In the summer, the wide panes of glass towards the east end of the building were a welcome break from the blistering heat, and in the winter they kept one safe from heavy piles of pristine white snow, but with school right around the corner, Kurt Hummel couldn’t imagine shutting himself in for any longer than necessary, bursting from the library’s stacks laden with a pile of books up to his chest. Though the colors seemed to spill from each cover, a cacophonic mess of clashing fashions, the young man held the volumes with especial care, lips curved in a knowing smile as he cut across the parking lot, the roof of the nearby gazebo visible through the winding branches of trees. They beckoned with each gust of wind, but Kurt knew better — though he didn’t often allow himself to live in fairy tales, beyond those trees was a place all his own, fallen into disrepair years ago, until one adventurous summer afternoon had led Kurt to the spot. Once there, Kurt knew that nothing else would matter. No matter how trying the day, in that garden, no one could touch him. No voices would penetrate. Just filtered sun and the chirp of birds keeping watch above.  
  
And so when he smiled, it was that of a person who held a secret that they had no intention of sharing.  
  
A place that only he would know.  
  
The bushes were overgrown, as often they became before the harshest part of winter hit, and Kurt cursed lightly under his breath as his coat snagged on the occasional thorn, thumb soon finding its home between his lips as he smoothed away a prick here and there. Distracted as he was by navigating the deceptively short stretch of path, it wasn’t until he stood on the edge of the clearing that he heard the soft strum of guitar in the distance — and he wondered if this, too, was a fairy tale all its own, because never before had Kurt dared to sing in the private alcove, afraid that raising above the whistle of the wind would only compromise the secret.  
  
That someone else had managed wove jealousy into Kurt’s chest, where it twisted and writhed like a snake through grass.  
  
Wordlessly, his eyes grew sharp at the sight of not one stranger, but two, though he only found himself drawn to the young man with tight black curls sitting on the crooked bench of the gazebo, a dark rosy red guitar propped up against his thigh. From off to the side, Kurt couldn’t be absolutely certain, and yet he could’ve sworn that there was something of that boy’s voice mixed in with the strains of the guitar, though he couldn’t make out any words, nor pin his finger on the song, achingly familiar though it felt. Leaning his shoulder against the smooth bark of a tree, Kurt watched as the world allowed him to exchange one secret for another, his breath growing quiet so as not to disturb the melody, which had even lulled the birds into an afternoon nap, it seemed.  
  
Kurt would’ve smiled, were it not clear that the music was full of longing, every pluck of the string seemingly on the cusp of crumbling into itself. But the thoughtful quirk of his lips seemed to be enough to disturb the peace regardless; at once, the music came to a grinding halt, and Kurt felt a sharp intake of breath as his blue-green eyes cut across the distance to land on a pair of irises that shone honeyed, even while so far away. The effect was beautiful, though Kurt couldn’t have explained why. None of the details seemed to fit together with perfect ease. One cuff of the guitarist’s trousers was rolled up, the other unceremoniously dug into his Converse sneakers, silver duct tape lining the side of the sole.  
  
He wasn’t planning on saying a word, or indeed lingering for long after their gazes met. There was no better explanation for it other than to say that something had made it clear that the musician needed the space far more than Kurt ever had. But then, movement from the side drove Kurt’s gaze to the second person, practically invisible to him until that moment, with a rounded face that broke into an easy smile. Practiced, Kurt wanted to say.  
  
The companion waved his hand eagerly, beckoning for Kurt to join them.  
  
And Kurt did, even as he questioned the reasons he had for taking those first steps.  
  
“Sorry,” he apologized first, the word sounding so unfamiliar when juxtaposed over the criss-cross of branches that he knew so well. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. This place just so happens to be my usual hangout post late-summer binges at the library, and it’s so rare to find others here that I didn’t stop to look before barging my way on in.”  
  
Eyes skirting over to the first boy, Kurt’s gaze wound up resting on the subtle curve of his fingers, almost boneless as they remained at rest against the strings of the guitar. He glanced up to meet the boy’s gaze, his own inquisitive, wondering why the boy had stopped and whether or not he would begin again, provided Kurt was somewhere hidden from view. Kurt had been shy about music once, years ago, shortly after his mother had passed away and taken all of the light in his world with her. He couldn’t listen to “Fields of Gold” for months afterwards, and his singing had become reserved for the plain white of his walls, stifled the moment it sounded like anyone was coming down the stairs. Sometimes, he had glanced in the mirror, looking for those details in his face that had once made his father proud, ways in which Kurt took after his mother — but instead of seeing her, he only saw the ache that she left behind.   
  
Whatever it was that lingered in the curly-haired young man’s eyes felt similar, and suddenly Kurt wanted nothing more than to tell him, however presumptuous it would’ve been, that he ought to continue playing the guitar. That he had a talent that shouldn’t have been allowed to go to waste. But any comfort that he offered with his eyes went either ignored or backfired entirely as the boy jerked in his seat, curling a leg on the bench before reaching over towards his wrist. Glittering under the sun was a silver bracelet, rectangular links hooking one into the next, until both met in a thin band, brushed smooth. On the side was an engraving, inlaid with bright red and in the shape of a hexagon.  
  
Kurt’s breath grew shallow in that instant, for he’d seen such bracelets before, his family having been offered an array shortly before his father had been released following a heart attack that had left him in a coma for a week. But it was impossible — improbable — that a man so young, and seemingly in decent shape, could have a condition which merited the use of a medical ID.  
  
Snaking around that same bracelet were a few elastic bands, and the boy hooked his fingers under a pair of them, stretching them taut before releasing each with a sharp snap. Kurt winced.  
  
Although he had kept at a distance up until that point, the guitarist’s friend stepped forward briskly then, vibrant smile slightly marred by the furrow of his brows, shaking his head in Kurt’s direction. “Oh, no,” he said, the cheer in his voice sounding strained. “Please, don’t apologize. It’s a free park, neither of us has any more claim to it than you do. Probably less, even, if this is your regular hangout. Blaine here and I were only out for fresh air, and the gazebo caught his attention.” Kurt mouthed the unfamiliar name silently as the companion reached out to stall Blaine’s hand as best he could, but still the young man continued to snap the band against his wrist, fingers soon shaking with a frenetic motion.  
  
Uneasily, Kurt shifted his weight from one foot to the other, swearing that he heard a soft noise of protest from Blaine, who tried to tug sharply away from his friend. Still, Kurt found himself transfixed. Looking for the cracks that were surely being pressed.  _Why?_  
  
“Blaine, c’mon, you’re gonna — stop,  _please_.” Exasperated, the second young man stepped back, shooting Kurt a worried glance, his eyes the soft green of meadows, Kurt would’ve said. “It’s a nervous habit of his, I — I think, he’s not really a forthcoming kind of guy. He’s probably embarrassed that he was performing without his knowledge.”  
  
“Sorry,” Kurt blurted out, expression falling when Blaine looked up sharply at the sound of his voice, bringing the rest of the apology to a halt. Throat suddenly dry as the pair of amber eyes began to give away too much in a glance — that it wasn’t a nervous tic, and that embarrassment likely had nothing to do with it — Kurt somehow managed to press on. “I… really should’ve been more careful.”  
  
An angry welt of red skin had begun to surface on Blaine’s wrist from under the ongoing snaps.  
  
“Sometimes, I’m pretty sure that there are parts of life that all of the care in the world can’t help us avoid,” said his friend, tone quiet as he slipped his hands heavily into the pockets of his blazer, a quiet sigh passing between his teeth. A shoe scuffed against the dirt, dust rising and settling over the black leather, giving it an aged look mirrored none too subtly in his expression. With another quirk of his lips, he pulled his right hand out of his pocket, stepping over to hold it out to Kurt.  
  
Snap, snap, the rubber band continued in the background.  
  
“I’m Trent,” he offered, fine chestnut hair blown awry by a silent, yet strong gust of wind.  
  
“Pleasure,” Kurt said, tentatively taking hold and offering a firm shake. “I’m Kurt.”  

* * *

“He wasn’t always like this,” Trent murmured quietly as the chords filtered softly from where Blaine had taken to his guitar again. The bands on his wrist appeared to have been forgotten for the moment as he hugged the instrument with his thighs, the stance protective and exclusive alike. The two boys — younger somehow, if not in age then certainly in the time they held in their eyes — sat some length away, doing what Kurt had once considered downright blasphemous as they parked themselves on the larger volumes of the pile Kurt checked out from the library, the lesser crime when pitted against somehow staining the seats of their trousers. Although he was sure that he would come to regret it, Kurt turned his face to glance up in the direction of the sky, feeling the sun kiss either of his cheeks with a warmth softened by heralding autumn.  
  
Slowly, he turned, as though any faster would disturb the newfound peace. “Are you sure we should be talking about him? He’s only sitting a few yards away.”  
  
Raising a hand and waving it gently, Trent pursed his lips and gave a quick shake of his head. “Don’t worry about it. He’s gone right now. Even if he can hear from over there, he won’t remember any of it. You can tell, because he’s playing the guitar. I can’t remember the last time he knowingly played the guitar for someone else.”  
  
“That’s…” Kurt exhaled to keep the lump from rising higher in his throat, blinking. “That’s so sad.”  
  
“He just — he used to be this  _really_  outgoing guy,” Trent insisted, voice straining as he doubled over his knees, pressing them tightly against his chest. “We’ve known each other since we were kids. His family lived across the street from mine over in Westerville, moved there when I was four. I remember staring out the parlor window and out at the street as their movers were hauling everything in, seeing this kid on the lawn. There weren’t a lot of us in the neighborhood, which is the only reason why I watched at all. I was shy and terrified of just about every stranger, big or small, but he — he glanced over and spotted me, immediately made a beeline for my front door, and only minutes later, my mom was suddenly pushing me out the door to play with ‘the charming boy’ who’d just moved into town. He was smooth enough even back then to secretly pluck a rose from our garden as an offering, which my mother adored. It’s… if there’s one thing that Blaine Anderson was born with, it’s the ability to make people fall in love with him.”  
  
Settling his chin on top of his knees, Kurt stared over at Blaine, finding that it wasn’t hard to imagine the scene that Trent had described, even without Blaine having said a word since his arrival. Perhaps it was the boyish curls, wild and unattended, that gave the impression of that boy being caught with one foot in the past, unable to progress forward to the adulthood that would ruin it all by bringing its heightened level of self-awareness. “So what happened?” Kurt murmured, pressing his lips into the side of his arm, against the crook of his elbow.  
  
Trent didn’t answer immediately. “I don’t know what happened,” he said. “I know that after sixth grade, he started flying over to his grandmother’s place out in California every summer, somewhere around Encino. And I, I know that she’s strict. I’ve only met her a couple of times, and she’s got this whole Lady Tremaine feel going, bright green eyes and a terrifying glare. God only knows she thinks that I’m some awful influence on Blaine.”  
  
Kurt frowned, glancing skeptically in Trent’s way.  
  
“Right?” Trent nodded in agreement. “I mean, look at me, I’m an overgrown teddy bear with a pompadour, there’s no way that I’m the influential one between the two of us. But I don’t know if she was a really strict guardian, or if something happened to Blaine over there, it’s just always worse when he gets back. He—” As Blaine’s fingers plucked away more sharply at the guitar, Trent fell silent for a second. “—he’s here now because he can’t stand to be at home anymore. He can’t go to my place. He  _panics_  when he sees our school, and — and so today I decided to go on a drive with him, otherwise his parents would hound him the whole time, trying to figure out what’s wrong.”  
  
“He’s not ready for that,” Kurt interjected, shaking his head and pulling himself away from his knees, his back suddenly straight as a board. “He’s not ready to be pushed around about it, he — he’s barely even ready to meet a stranger’s gaze, h-how could his parents think that was a good idea? It probably hurts him more than it helps.”  
  
Silence fell between the both of them again, and a single green leaf bounced through fields of tall grass, a dancer caught in a battle lost with the breeze. Following its progress, Kurt started when he heard a sniff from his side, and again when he realized that Trent was rubbing furiously at the corners of his eyes, a wet streak left on the back of his hand.  
  
“I’m… I’m  _so_  sorry for unloading this on you,” he stammered, a soft hiccup catching in his throat as he offered a watery smile in Kurt’s direction. “I haven’t had anyone to talk to about this in years. It’s always, ‘he’s going through a phase,’ or ‘there’s nothing you can do,’ or ‘son, you’re better off focusing on your studies than trying to help the Anderson kid.’ And I don’t know if they’re right? But there’s little in the world more depressing than watching  _everyone_  Blaine’s ever known giving up on him, one by one.”  
  
Would it have been too much for Kurt to pledge his loyalty then? To a boy who hadn’t even said hello, at that. But his stomach clenched at all of it, the hesitation he felt, the shame at being unable to give a pledge of good faith. He shifted on the book, wincing at the pins and needles which came once circulation started again, and he pressed his palms down into the grass until lines stood out against the skin there as well, which he began running over carefully with a half-moon nail.  
  
“Do you need a place to stay?” he asked instead.  
  
Trent beamed, eyes still wet. “No, but — thanks. I’ve got a cousin who lives here, she said she’d take him in and make sure he has regular appointments with a therapist over at St. Rita’s.”  
  
Guilt worming into his chest upon the faint ease that Kurt felt at finding out he hadn’t backed himself into a corner, he nodded, pressing his lips against his arm again and nudging his small pile of books around with the toe of his shoe, dragging it through grass. The moment seemed to throw into sharp relief the fact that Kurt had seen so little in his life as capable of drumming his heart against his ribcage. His own life had been sheltered, though riddled too with loss, a mother gradually sliding out of the picture as memories blurred the lines of her face — but in spite of that, he’d never felt that he lacked in love, or care, or the concerns of others piled high around him through the tougher of his days. He’d been bitter before at the apparent lack of sympathy or concern from the school staff upon being shoved into the school lockers, his face sometimes rosy after being smacked against lines of metal, but people did care, even if they were afraid to challenge the status quo. And whatever protection they couldn’t offer him, Kurt had learned to raise about him like a wall, slipping him under shadow as he tried to skirt by unnoticed on the harder days, then stood tall for the easier ones. If there was a god, and Kurt still didn’t believe that there was, Kurt could’ve said that he’d been born with everything that he needed to survive while on his own two feet. Blaine didn’t seem half as fortunate.  
  
“I don’t like hospitals very much,” Kurt admitted, “but if your cousin ever needs a break and you’re too busy to drive on over, I could probably — not that Blaine’s even comfortable with me yet, but.”  
  
“I’m sure she’d love that,” Trent nodded quickly. “She’s doing this as a big favor to me, but she’s in college already and I know she’s got her hands full, even if she’s taking courses online. You might know her, actually — she’s around our age — Suzy Pepper?”  
  
Brows climbing up at once, Kurt nodded tentatively. “I’ve never really spoken with her, but I know who she is. She’s kind of famous around my school, actually,” he winced.  
  
“She’s mellowed out since then. I know she’s been kind of obsessive in the past, but not anymore.”  
  
“It happens to the best of us,” he replied with a slight smile, wry and knowing, remembering that once upon a time he’d been deliriously in love, or so he thought, with his own stepbrother. But before he could share the tale, Kurt glanced up, suddenly noting the lack of music in the air. “Hey, did Blaine st—”  
  
His breath caught when his gaze met that same pair of amber eyes, clearer than before, flecks of green among the gold. If Kurt thought that he’d made eye contact with Blaine before, it was now infinitely clear that he hadn’t even begun to see the other boy, unspoken secrets buried in the irises, lingering between the press of his lips; Kurt at once felt compelled to ask, yet silenced in one breath, sitting straight on his book until he noticed Trent rising beside him, then following suit and standing evenly.  
  
After an awkward few seconds’ worth of silence, Kurt stepped forward, offering his hand. “Hi, I’m—”  
  
“Kurt,” Blaine replied, glancing down and twisting the rubber band on his wrist. “I know. I’m Blaine.”  
  
Mutely, Kurt nodded, dropping his arm back down to his side and giving Trent a helpless look. For his part, Trent didn’t seem to know any better how to help the two of them connect, or if indeed it was needed at all, inhaling deep and trying to speak just as Blaine spoke up once more.  
  
“Trent, let’s get out of here,” Blaine spoke up, the words firm however soft they came, and Trent quickly nodded and bent to help collect Kurt’s books with a sheepish look, apology apparent in his expression. Kurt shook his head, trying to brush it aside.  
  
“It was really great to meet you, Kurt,” Trent said, before starting suddenly, arm tightening around the books he’d helped gather as he reached into his pocket for his phone, holding it out to Kurt. “Actually, would you mind? Not that — I mean, no obligation, obviously I’ve already made you talk for a million and a half hours when all I am’s a complete stranger to you.”  
  
“No,” Kurt shook his head, starting slightly when a glance in Blaine’s direction told him that the amber-eyed boy was still staring. “No, that’s fine. Here.” He took the phone and quickly jotted down his number, hesitating on including his last name, then deciding to simply include the initial.  
  
“Great,” Trent breathed in relief, smile returned to his face. “I’ll send you a text or something later tonight after I’ve gotten — after Blaine’s situated.” He paused, before adding in a serious tone. “Truly, Kurt. Thank you.”  
  
Numbly, Kurt shook his head. “Think nothing of it.”  
  
And as the two boys turned to leave, Kurt watched in silence, slowly trailing behind them until he was seated under the roof of the gazebo, freezing only when Blaine Anderson seemed intent on turning back to face in his direction one more time.  
  
“I’ll see you later, Kurt.”  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Aversion therapy, verbal abuse, depression. This story covers heavy subject material and tries not to pull punches, so be warned.

_June 8th, 2007_

“And the status update on Anderson?”

Although lined on one side by a mirror from floor to ceiling and with the air carrying the faint scent of ethanol, there was little which set the room apart from any other classroom to be found in general suburbia. The walls were painted eggshell white and mostly bare, but adorned close to the ceiling with a thin strip of peeling wallpaper, the color clearly split down the center of the room. It wouldn’t have taken a second glance to guess at the colors that must have been there once, perhaps slapped on years ago with clumsily-applied adhesive, bright pink and blue that had changed into the faint rosy orange of sunset and the bright aqua of a chlorinated pool. Everyone else was probably capable of glancing its way for merely a second and processing it for what it was meant to represent, colors of a baby shower frozen in time, but in the corner of the room often sat a young boy who tended to spare the colors a lingering glance, contemplation often rising to replace the otherwise effervescent smiles he chose to give.

That same gaze was turned down for the moment towards a magazine spread over his lap, cover still dark and glossy in spite of a few freshly creased and dog-eared corners, lines of white cutting through the color. Every now and again, the boy would newly fold another leaf down, but if he was perusing the pages, his eyes gave no indication. They were unfocused. Unseeing.

“He’s a strange case, sir. The activities that he chooses to engage in, the children he befriends — Anderson simply gives no indication of being out of the ordinary for his gender. And yet there remains that perverse romantic interest in men,” a young woman replied, tugging the wrinkles out of her magnolia pink blouse, the shiny gloss of her matching nails betraying a slight quiver in her movement, almost nervous, like that of a bird.

Subconsciously, the young boy raised a finger to his temple, winding a curl around with the same halting movement as the woman. Amber eyes glanced up, but still they refused to focus on much. All that she represented to him was a splash of color; occasionally he glanced away to enjoy the lime green that then burned against the walls, slow to fade.

“He exhibits no discomfort or unwillingness to dance with the girls? Chooses to otherwise stay in the company of young boys?” The first voice, no doubt masculine, was one that the boy had yet to meet with his gaze. There was something about its tone that felt cold, severe. Quickly, the boy renewed his interest in the magazine, hand instinctively reaching towards the corner, folding yet another crease.

“He’s a perfect gentleman to all of the girls, sir. Shows mild interest in the selection of flowers to present to his dance partner,” the woman noted, tilting her head until blonde hair cascaded over her shoulder in a smooth sheet, bending with her movement. “But nothing out of the ordinary. No insistence upon a certain style, certainly more interest in the actual dance itself. He sometimes appears shy, even, around some of the girls, and during these open sessions, gravitates towards the company of boys outside of the program — although, admittedly, there’s no one that Anderson seems incapable of speaking to. If he notices anyone alone for an extended period of time, he takes it upon himself to keep said child company. Truly, it’s really quite heartwarming.”

The boy smiled, pressing his lips together thinly a second later.

“Yes, and this is all fascinating to hear,” the clipped reply came, showing no sign of amusement or deeper interest. “Yet we’re not here to discuss how inclusive Blaine Anderson is of the wayward and misled children at this institution. We’re not here to praise him for being a perfect dance partner, nor his apparent enthusiasm to prepare bouquets for the young girls. We’re here to determine the reasons behind this  _twisted_  preference of his, which has surfaced at an alarmingly young age, and to stamp out any subsequent behaviors. You must never forget, Ms. Eaton — there is something  _wrong_  with this child. It may not be willful on his part, but nonetheless, it is our job to find the root of the problem. And, God forbid it isn’t too late, to correct the behavior as well.”

“Oh yes, sir.” Her voice took up a softer tone, somewhere between reverent and a simper. “Of course. I assure you, never once have I wavered in the cause, it’s just — well, he’s such a strange case, sir. He enjoys cars, he follows football games.”

The boy’s hand stopped brushing over the pages, instead clamping down over his knees, knuckles white.

“And a quick background check on his family revealed nothing out of the ordinary,” she continued “No other cases of homosexuality within his family. His father and elder brother alike play a strong role in Anderson’s life, both setting stellar examples, both high school quarterbacks in their time.”

“What about young Blaine’s extracurricular activities? What hobbies does he take part in?”

There was a pause before Ms. Eaton spoke up again, the quality of her voice seeming to be on some constant waver, bright at turns, then falling submissive. “Choir, it seems. Drama as well. He always seems to most enjoy our music classes. And he has a beautiful voice, might I add. I’ve heard few like it.”

“Again, Ms. Eaton, you must be careful about your level of sentimentality.”

The young boy threw an arm across his stomach, free hand leaping out to stop the magazine from falling sharply between his knees, breath frozen as he glanced up to check and see if the adults had heard. The sight stopped him. If there was an edge in the doctor’s voice, none of it was apparent at a glance. Either of the man’s eyes seemed creased by crow’s feet — laughter lines, his mother had explained to him when they first showed up by her own eyes, the result of having lived a happy life, the result of having such a bright and sparkling son. His suit and tie bore a strong resemblance to something the boy’s father might have worn, a dark black blazer with a crisp white shirt underneath, and a gray satin tie, stripes cut diagonally across the cloth. With lightly curling hair, the resemblance seemed to strike yet further, and out of curiosity, the boy raised a thumb to block what he saw of the man’s face.

He could have been staring at his father right then.

With his stomach rolling and face feeling clammy and cold, the boy squeezed his arm even more tightly around himself, the magazine falling to the ground with a slap. The floor seemed to move under him, the voices dulling into soft noise in the background, and even the effect of the light as it pulsed over the tiles showed a rise and fall in strength, shaking, frenetic. A bitter taste lingered not long in the back of his throat before the boy suddenly bent forward, vomit falling to the ground in a soft splatter.   

* * *

_August 23rd, 2011_   
  
“The guitar case is key. People don’t just carry guitar cases around school unless they intend to use them at some point, and with the school band hardly being short in membership — surprising as it may be — and with the band not having much of a place for an acoustic guitar at that, I can only surmise that he’s one of many kids swept up in the recent stream of musicians made popular by coffee shop routines.”   
  
“Chances are, he can sing,” she continued, and Kurt hesitated for a moment before picking a seat a couple of chairs away, the distance his safeguard in case her tirades for the day grew to be too much to handle. “Or chances are that he at least has enough sense of rhythm and pitch to be as good of an addition to the glee club as anyone who’s tried out to date.”   
  
“It’s true that us guys who play the guitar usually happen to be  _smoking_ , especially on stage,” Puck agreed, leaning forward to rest his arm along the back of Rachel’s seat. “And with Puckasaurus on the prowl again, I know that strength comes in numbers. I wouldn’t mind a new back-up to help make the ladies swoon, if you get what I’m saying.”   
  
Pausing in his movement, Kurt pursed his lips, letting his messenger bag slide to a stop by a chair before sinking down and watching his friends plot away, probably some impossible scheme to get someone to join the glee club. Something that wouldn’t work, Kurt was pretty sure. For all their recruitment efforts in glee club, very few people had stuck around, very few people cared to weather the constant teasing and bullying for all that long. He crossed one leg over the other, listening from a distance, and if nothing else, the familiar sound of his friends’ voices offered calm after a long day.   
  
Conspiratorially, Rachel’s eyes widened as she slowly nodded at Puck, lips threatening to spread into her trademark megawatt smile. “You know, that’s a good point. This guy has all the makings of a new teen heartthrob; who’s to say that we can’t use him to lure some of our old members back? I mean, Finn’s clearly taken and Puck isn’t going for commitment right now, it might not hurt to have a handsome guy in the club who’s clearly available,” Rachel pointed out, wagging her finger. “Personally, I think this is a  _great_  opportunity to try and win Quinn back.”   
  
Kurt raised a brow in disbelief, resting his chin against the back of his knuckles.   
  
“I mean,” she continued, “Quinn’s clearly gone a bit… dark and unconventional in her coping methodology. But I feel like dyeing her hair, getting a tattoo, spending time with the skanks, it’s — it’s just a cry for attention. We need to shake her out of it. Maybe a cute new boyfriend could do the trick.”   
  
“I thought that’s what Sam was supposed to be,” Artie pointed out, swiveling in his chair before adjusting his glasses and dropping his hands in his lap. “And look how far that went.”   
  
“Yeah, remember how long it took for Quinn to decide that Sam wasn’t exciting enough for her? You sure you want to deal with her trying to steal your man again, Rachel?” Kurt raised a brow in Mercedes’ direction, sensing something tense in the girl’s words, more vitriolic than the situation necessarily deserved. But then again, Kurt reminded himself, he never did think Quinn half as culpable for the situation as Finn himself, however much the brunet loved his stepbrother.   
  
Which was still no match for Rachel herself, eyes determined as she shook her head, a high flush rising on her cheeks, almost defiant. “Yes, thank you for the reminder, not that I’ve forgotten, but in case it slipped  _your_  guys’ mind, Finn and I are rock solid now. We’ve been together for months, and it’s been wonderful, and it’s right in a way that Finn and Quinn never were — I wish you guys had faith in that, but clearly you’d rather linger on complications long past, so long as they make for interesting conversation,” she concluded, voice quieting in hurt.  
  
From where she sat in the corner, Brittany’s brow was deeply furrowed in thought, and at the first opportunity, she glanced up and around the rest of the group, lips still thin with worry. “I don’t know if Quinn should really be dating a hobbit, guys. I mean, look what that promise ring did to her — she went kind of crazy,” she remarked, legs crossed on the seat of her chair. “I know hobbits are good ring-bearers and everything compared to the rest of us but I just don’t think this one’s ready for that kind of action. Also, hairy feet are kind of gross.”   
  
As usual, Kurt stared from a distance, trying for the life of him to figure out who the hobbit was.   
  
“Wait,” he interrupted, eyes narrowing as the rest of the club came to stare at him, some surprised by his uncharacteristically quiet entrance. “You guys don’t happen to be thinking of Blaine Anderson, right? Please tell me you aren’t trying to recruit the transfer student who’s barely had a chance to breathe.”   
  
“Kurt, that’s the only time we might be able to recruit a transfer student,” Rachel pointed out, draping her arms over the back of her chair and briefly considering resting her chin there, but withholding herself in the end. “Once he starts forming friendships and building bridges here, our chance is gone.”   
  
In the background, Tina made note of the increasingly indignant flush rising to Kurt’s cheeks and corralled the topic back. “Well, if we don’t think that Blaine and Quinn are a good match, I mean, we have a fair number of us in the glee club. What about you, Mercedes? I would absolutely  _love_  to hear you start singing to acoustic guitar; it’d be so different from your usual.”   
  
Mercedes shook her head, arching an impassive brow and wagging her finger. “Uh-uh, sweetheart,” she replied. “As much as I appreciate having you look out for me, Mercedes has got a man of her very own this year and the two of us are incredibly happy, thank you very much. I don’t need no new man confusing things up in here, not when things are going so good for me.”   
  
“Frankly I don’t see what the appeal is,” Santana offered, arms neatly crossed over the bright lines of her Cheerios uniform as she sat in the back row with Brittany. Kurt felt his hands tighten from where he listened, and his stomach twisting in preparation for whatever scathing logic she had to present. “I mean, first of all, I’m pretty sure he’s shorter than Kurt, meaning that aside from those of us power chair-bound by thirty, he’ll be of the smallest stature — I’m assuming that’s not what we’re looking for in a leading man — not to mention that his hair’s worse than a muppet and he seems to have some strange aversion to socks. And, uh, frankly this room doesn’t get enough ventilation to put up with your guys’ football-triggered cornchip smell in the first place.”   
  
The legs of Kurt’s chair ground against the floor as he dragged himself to his feet, quickly slinging the bag over his shoulder, bringing the conversation to a silence. Never one to be deterred by a rapt audience, Kurt’s eyes narrowed and he shook his head at the whole of his glee club, and with Mr. Schuester apparently running a few minutes late, Kurt decided that there wasn’t a point in holding back his words. If he timed this right, he’d slip out of practice before Schue even got there — he wasn’t in the mood for song anymore, not with the scheming going on in the room. “Maybe you guys shouldn’t treat the new kid like he’s just another piece of meat,” he said, eyes sharp in a glare. “Scouting to see if he’s got talent is one thing, but  _scheming_  to get him in here? Setting him up with Quinn? None of you seem to have even  _tried_  to get to know him, because if you did, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t be jumping to try and change him into something he’s not.”   
  
Letting silence hang for another few seconds, Kurt pressed his lips firmly together, brows raised as he pivoted in the direction of the exit, sighing once his back was turned to the glee club. He loved the members dearly, like a second family, but sometimes their logic was more than a little twisted.   
  
Still, it wasn’t long before he was reminded of how the choir room managed to be his saving grace most of the time.  
  
Quietly shutting his locker after unearthing the books needed for that evening’s homework, Kurt turned to head in the direction of the main entrance, only to feel his movement suddenly shoved back as the clang of metal knocked the wind out of him. His eyes thankfully safe from the shot of pain otherwise passing through his body, Kurt looked up scathingly, catching a glance of a familiar sloping figure shuffling away down the hall, a satisfied smirk aimed in Kurt’s direction. Donned in a letterman jacket and with an impressive stature, Dave Karofsky was a boy Kurt couldn’t stand up to in full, whether he wanted to or not. Practically, he could’ve pointed out that Karofsky was twice his size, and being a football player, had twice the social capital.   
  
Truthfully, it was that the young man scared Kurt.   
  
“What’s wrong, Fancy? The gay club kick you out because you’re  _still_  too much of a fag?” Karofsky taunted, laughing at his own joke as he shoved his hands back into his pockets and continued to snicker down the hall. Once out of sight, Kurt only managed a thin breath of relief, starting to sag against the surface of the lockers, feeling a grate or two press uncomfortably into his back.   
  
“So what did they do to you?”   
  
Just before sliding to the ground, Kurt’s eyes blinked open upon hearing Quinn’s voice in the distance. Never the girl who had it easiest reaching the soprano range, Quinn Fabray’s recent foray into smoking and her jaded nature, worn like leather, had lowered her voice in recent weeks. Still, it was nothing but recognizable to Kurt, still carrying that wry tone which Quinn held around her like a comfortable shroud, although only a shadow of what it’d been in years past.   
  
Picking himself up, Kurt shuffled over to the side of the lockers, planting himself there and listening to her speak around the corner. Sometimes he wondered how much he should have, as a friend, intervened in her life. More often than not, Kurt chose to think of it as not being his place, but when Quinn had abandoned perfect golden locks in favor of bright pink tresses, Kurt had to wonder.   
  
Hearing her voice still stumble into silence, Kurt peeked quickly. A dark black head of hair, messier than when he’d seen it last, hovered around the space between lockers as Blaine Anderson sat on the linoleum floor, guitar straddling his thighs. Immediately, Kurt frowned — did he need to intervene on Blaine’s behalf?   
  
“I get it,” Quinn replied before Kurt found the opportunity, her voice quiet and subdued. If anything, there seemed to be a smile in her words as she turned to lean against the lockers with a shoulder, shrugging her messenger bag further up and crossing her arms tightly over her chest. If there was anything Kurt could have said about Quinn in spite of all that she’d been through, it was that Quinn hadn’t lost even a touch of that magnetic look which drew so many people to her in the first place, that ease which had helped secure her position as head Cheerio. “They’re annoying as all get out once they’ve decided that they want to bring you into the fold. Persistent, aggravating, singing _all the time_ , and their brand of peer pressure is  _just_  as bad as anything else that passes in these halls. The worst thing is though, no matter how loyal they say they are to each other, there is  _so_  much bickering that goes on in that choir room. They turn on each other at the drop of a hat. So if you’re looking for someone to listen, don’t look there. Every one of them is caught up in their own world.”   
  
Taking shallow breaths, Kurt found his lips curving into a slight smile regardless. In spite of everything else he could have easily said about Quinn Fabray, in that moment, she had a point. How easily Quinn had managed to fall out of the fold was proof enough that the glee club didn’t always know how best to fight for one another. Kurt slid against the wall, resting his head against the cool surface of the locker, listening through the silence.  
  
“I don’t know what happened to you, and I don’t know why you refuse to talk,” she continued. Brow knitting at Quinn’s words, Kurt chanced another glance their way. Quinn stared directly down at Blaine, her arms delicately crossed in a way that would have been perfectly reminiscent of sophomore year, had she been wearing red and white rather than pink and gray. “But here in Lima, it doesn’t matter how loudly you scream. If no one wants to listen, no one will hear you.”   
  
Kurt’s hand slid to the corner of the wall, gripping tightly, before gingerly raising his hand to brush against his upper arm, still sore from the recent impact.   
  
“So maybe you have the right idea,” she concluded.   
  
There was a shuffling noise as Quinn raised the strap of her bag and lifted it over her head, the flat strap stretching over her chest. Shifting further to the side, Kurt held his breath, as though afraid of being discovered, but equally unwilling to leave. For all that he’d been acutely aware of Blaine Anderson’s transfer, Kurt knew he was guilty of avoiding the thought, of avoiding Blaine himself entirely through the day. The guilt wormed deep in his stomach. Yes, the first day of school was stressful, he thought to himself, listening as Quinn’s footsteps faded into the distance. But if the start of senior year was too much for Kurt to bear, he couldn’t imagine how Blaine felt, separated from everyone who knew him well and dropped into a school Kurt couldn’t imagine as being half as safe and refined as any Westerville school. Kurt could have helped.   
  
And even if he didn’t know how, that wasn’t a viable excuse not to try.   
  
The sound of sneakers against the floor jerked Kurt from his thoughts. Down the hall, he could hear Rachel’s voice again, a sign that the club had probably taken the requisite five minutes to discuss all the reasons for Kurt’s absence, but then moved on to the activity of the day. Kurt didn’t mind. Better than having Mr. Schuester run out and force Kurt to talk about his feelings. Strongly believing that none of the New Directions were expecting him to return within the session, Kurt hefted his bag and turned to follow Blaine, whose figure quickly retreated down the hall. For someone who seemed so questionably capable of engaging with strangers, he had a purposeful air about him. Getting out of there.   
  
His figure grew smaller as Blaine continued at his faster pace. And with him, Kurt felt a trickle of cold pass over his skin, watching, watching as another person threatened to slip out of his life, and even if they hardly knew each other, even if Kurt hadn’t been remotely capable of getting through—   
  
“Hey!” Kurt called out, a tentative smile on his face as he rushed forward, a slight skip in his step and made him inwardly cringe. “I thought I heard a few people drop your name around the halls this morning, but I wasn’t sure if I’d remembered correctly.”   
  
By the time he caught up, Blaine stared back with that same pair of amber eyes, wide and dark with burgeoning thoughts, and Kurt felt his stomach twist again. Again, there were no words from Blaine. Unlike last time, however, the chill between them was palpable, more guarded than their last encounter. Half-expecting to hear a snap, Kurt glanced down, only to be met with a bare stretch of skin about Blaine’s wrist.   
  
“So uh, you’re staying with Suzy Pepper, right?” Kurt grinned, nodding his head towards the entrance of the school. “My car’s parked in the lot, I could easily give you a ride home—”   
  
But Blaine didn’t seem keen on waiting, turning quietly on his heel and pushing his way out of the building. Voice dying on his lips, Kurt battled internally with the idea of chasing after the other boy, but with each passing second, the likelihood of catching up grew too low, and the likelihood of going too far grew too high. And this was the man the New Directions thought they could recruit as one of them?   
  
Fat chance, Kurt thought.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Aversion therapy, verbal abuse, depression. This story covers heavy subject material and tries not to pull punches, so be warned.

_July 10th, 2007_  
  
“Blaine, what is it that you value most in this world?”  
  
At first glance, the office was beautiful. Every sweep of the boy’s amber eyes landed on a polished surface, ranging in color and texture from smooth mahogany to beaten, bleached leather. Unlike the rooms in which patients were made to stay, Joseph Nicolosi’s office looked carefully tended to, not a single speck of dust to be found wherever the boy looked. It was the type of office he could easily picture his grandmother entering, a large diploma framed and placed strategically on the wall behind the desk, immediately visible to those who entered. The focal point of the room, really. Any further shift of one’s eyes would graze across plaques, trophies, pictures of Nicolosi with his arm draped over the shoulders of young men and women who held nothing in common save for a look in their eyes, one that turned the boy’s stomach and that he couldn’t quite place his finger on. He knew it, though. It was the same look that met his eyes in the mirror every morning, growing more noticeable by the day. A shadow that he suspected would creep further into his life, uninvited.  
  
There came a certain safety in being invited here, however counterintuitive the boy knew that thought to be. This was the room that the center needed to sell, after all. Every success was carefully documented and presented in some form here, every accomplishment marked with a star or crossed and dotted in perfect script. Nicolosi’s eyes were kinder, gentler while he was in this office, as though it had the effect of bolstering his own confidence, shoulders drawn back and fingers neatly entwined as his palms draped over his knees. The boy turned his gaze to the doctor’s chair, details carved into the wood and studded brightly with gold along the edge of the upholstery, then wrapped his fingers more tightly around the rounded edge of his own seat, plastic cool against his palms.  
  
Images flashed through his mind. A large hand wrapped around the upper arm of a young girl to drag her away from the toy trucks she coveted most. A furrow drove through a dark brow as that same pair of hands pointed towards a young boy curled up in the corner of the room, voice loud and booming against the walls, words that didn’t register with any of the other children in the room, stock still with some mix of surprise and fear.  
  
The boy remembered all of this and more, the hush that would fall upon them all when this man stepped into the room, and he squirmed in his seat, hooking his ankles politely and trying his best to keep his shoulders from drawing higher around himself. Honesty was all that he could manage then.  
  
“My family,” he answered, his own voice sounding foreign to his ears.  
  
He watched a weathered thumb trace the mustache along Nicolosi’s upper lip, a shadow forming at the corner of the man’s mouth, and in the blurred background of his range of vision, the gold seal of the diploma twinkled under incandescent lighting. “Good,” Nicolosi rumbled after a pregnant pause. “Very good, Blaine. That’s something we can work with.”  
  
It was silent, yet a breath passed through the boy’s lips all the same. Had he chosen correctly? Or was there some way in which that answer was wrong too? The boy’s grandmother had so often mentioned how it was selfish to value one’s own flesh and blood against principle and right. Sometimes, the world felt like a very long exercise in picking and choosing, for it wasn’t always possible to hold one right while carrying the other. But his identity was malleable still, the boy told himself. And it was okay. People changed for the ones that they loved, and he could do the same, and it would be _okay_.  
  
Nicolosi cleared his throat, causing the boy to jump. “We’re going to try an exercise, Blaine,” he announced, steepling his fingers briefly before tugging open the top drawer of his desk. The sound of ruffling papers met the boy’s ears, and he stared down at the sudden expanse of white over reddened brown and heard the clack of wood meeting wood, a box of colored pencils placed by the side of the makeshift canvas. “To begin, I would like for you to please draw a picture of yourself.”  
  
The boy stared dumbly.  
  
“We’re not looking for the next Degas,” Nicolosi reassured, bringing his fingertips to the cardboard box and pushing it forward with a sharp nudge. The boy pushed briefly back in his chair, then shifted forward, until he sat close to the edge of the seat, eyes trained on the darkest blue. “Frankly, I don’t blame you for being a little nervous. I’ve never been much of an artist myself. I probably would have panicked.” Smiling, Nicolosi chuckled, shaking his head at his own joke.  
  
Tentative smile blooming over his lips, the boy nodded. “My mom’s the artist of the family,” he confided, tugging out the black pencil first and turning its point in tight circles, slightly disheveled. That, he noted with some pride, he’d inherited from his mother, her locks thick, shining under the sun. Even at a young age, the boy knew that he could never wear it in the same way as her, that the soft whorls which curled by the nape of his neck were soon being seen as an overt sign of youth, to be discarded in the race to adulthood that his friends were all quickly entering. They were only there now because he hadn’t found the time to ask for a trim.  
  
“I never got that from her,” he murmured, voice trailing off as he remembered what Nicolosi had to say about his singing. He glanced at another two pencils, lime green and brown, and slid those out of the box next. They smelled new, hardly used, but it didn’t stop the boy from blending the hues against the paper until the green was pulled back and muddled at the tip, something like algae pulled in by the tide. Glancing up, he noticed that Nicolosi wasn’t making eye contact, but instead kept his eyes on the page. Biting down on his lip, the boy quickly pushed those two colors away, not quite satisfied with the color of the eyes, but moving on to the crisper lines of a dark navy blazer.  
  
Dropping his hands away from his lips, Nicolosi nodded. “I think you’ve made an incredibly astute choice.  _Family_. You know, most boys roughly your age whom I speak to when I lecture at various campuses, they talk of some prized possession they hold dear. The car that lets them travel. A baseball that they caught at a game their fathers took them to. Clichéd though it sounds, some even suggest a lucky jockstrap,” he added with an amused raise of his brow. “But you bring up the one thing that dives down into the churn of humanity and separates us, man, from beast. Family. You’re a smart boy.”   
  
Pressing his lips together and feeling warmth rise to his cheeks, the boy added red in a rush of movement, lines practiced and memorized years ago. A deft turn of his fingers pivoted the page until it faced Nicolosi, and the boy looked up, eyes wide and hopeful. “Is this okay?” he asked.  
  
“Fine, yes,” the doctor replied, eyes darting to the page but half a second after the words tumbled from his lips. “Good. Now if you could summon up for me, Blaine, your image of the  _ideal_  family. I want to see your view there as well.”  
  
Shifting his weight on the chair, the boy nodded, biting down determinedly on his lip as he peeled the paper away from the desk and swiveled it to face himself. Black first again, he decided, although his free hand held the brown close. Smile reappearing, he began to work on his mother’s curls, not so tightly wound, but instead hanging heavy in soft waves which fell down to her waist.  
  
“As remarkable as the human race has become over the years, what drives us is ultimately very simple,” said Nicolosi, shaking his head when the boy raised his gaze, instead encouraging for him to continue with a small wave of a hand. “The center of the human race is the family, and I mean that in a very literal way. When each child is born, it’s ultimately quite helpless. A baby knows how to feed. How to get rid of waste. It knows to cry when it’s in need of help, and that’s about the whole of it. With that skill set, there’s no way that a baby would survive without someone or some people to raise it. And by God’s design, biological parents are just that, most able to sense the needs of the child and most likely to feel that stirring of love. Of course, the world isn’t so perfect that every child is raised this way, but that’s the backbone of the human race, the gift given to us that two people who love each other and are suited to one another also have the ability to procreate and continue that legacy. Remarkable, I’d say.”  
  
The pair of them fall into silence again, silence filling the room, punctuated only by the scratch of pencil against paper. Whether or not Nicolosi was glancing at the boy’s paper at last, he didn’t know, but uncertainty weighed heavier than anything else, down on the boy’s shoulders, darkening the jagged lines that stuttered across the page. A mother in a tan dress, red bowtie sash just off-center around her waist. A father standing tall, the harsh line of his mouth unsmiling, but a hand intimately drawn over the shoulder of a second son, taller, with delicate brown hair which fell over his forehead in purposeful waves. They always did say, the boy thought to himself, to draw art and emotion from that which he knew. In this, the picture was no different. He had no use for lofty ideals. The real thing was better.  
  
(He did, however, add a dog to the side, a large black lab that threatened to overtake the younger of the boys, because he’d always wondered what it’d be like to have a pet all his own.)  
  
Carefully, the pencils were returned to the box one by one, a few of them lingering for too long on the surface of the table, rolling across with a clatter. In the amount of time that it took to order the colors, from red to violet and then reluctantly adding in the shadows until they faded to black, Nicolosi had taken the drawing in hand again, lifting it from the table and leaning back in his chair as he held the picture up to the light, as though searching for something in the grain of the parchment itself. The boy watched, hesitant, but no less transfixed.  
  
“So it makes you think,” he continued, as though he hadn’t paused at all, as the picture came down to his lap, where the paper nearly wrinkled under Nicolosi’s attempt to hold it flat. “Is there  _any_  fathomable reason for which God would have intended to create people… in such a way that those who loved each other dearly would never be able to fully realize that love?”  
  
The boy shivered.   
  
“And there will be people out there, mark my words, even in the respectable neighborhood where you’ve been raised, who will insist at this point in the argument—” And the boy clasps his hand together, tensing, because he’d been unprepared for this meeting itself, let alone an argument. “—that there are some men and women who may be incapable of having kids together, and to that I say, yes. Yes, there are people who face unimaginable hardships in this world, and to see the resultant strength is a miracle in of itself. So many children abandoned in the world, and couples who aren’t able to have their own for one reason or another, they step in to set right the balance. But there is a difference, Blaine, don’t you see?”  
  
He tried to shake his head, but instead he found his neck stuff, and his mouth dry.  
  
“Two men, or indeed two women, can never under any circumstances create a child. It does not matter if there is a surrogate in wait to carry that child to term. It does not matter how many hormone treatments a person may undergo.” Nicolosi leaned in, flattening the boy’s picture over his desk, smoothing out the paper and running his finger over a slight nick that had been folded in his haste. “Two men can never produce a child. Two women can never produce a child. And were the whole world to live that way, there would be no children. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Seems wrong.”  
  
Just by a fraction, the boy sunk further into the chair, feeling the surface jar against his vertebrae. Cautiously, he glanced up, deep amber meeting a darker brown — almost like mahogany.  
  
“I want to show you something, Blaine.” With a confiding tone, Nicolosi rolled open that same top drawer, licking the tip of his thumb before sifting through the ream, pulling a small stack of papers out and splaying them over the desk. “You aren’t the first young man or woman I’ve called in here. We’re here to help you, Blaine, and anyone who may be in your shoes, confused and unable to quite find their way. We strongly believe that the fundamental key towards a person’s happiness is to be surrounded by those they love, and to form a family of their own. After all, that’s what  _you_ want, isn’t it?”  
  
The boy’s gaze fell again, obediently, down to the pictures scattered on the table. With his vision slightly blurred and out of focus, they all looked similar. Two parents, sometimes stationed in front of a house, with anywhere from one to four kids. Sometimes a cat, a dog. A car.  
  
One suit and one dress.  
  
“See what they have in common, Blaine? A mother and a father. Every single one, more often than not a picture-perfect representation of the parents of each individual in this community. I have asked every person who starts here to show me the family that they want, and it is this.” A lime green tab stuck out from the stack, folded and worn, the color starting to wear off the plastic. “And here, Blaine, is in fact a picture drawn by a young man I think you know quite well.”  
  
Oil pastels, the boy thought to himself, seeing the smudges. A small, rounded, and freckled face supported cobalt blue frames.  
  
“Ralph,” he murmured.  
  
“Ralph. Has he ever spoken to you about his family?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
The silence was deafening. “And?”  
  
Hitting the heels of his foot against the leg of the chair, the boy stared down at the sheet, at Ralph’s father being drawn off to the side, sitting in a cherry red convertible with its top down. On the other hand, the bespectacled stick figure remained close to a slimmer figure dressed in a sleek, butter yellow dress with large polka dots of white.  
  
“His mom died five years ago.” Again, there was that burning sensation deep in the pit of his stomach, a kettle about to bubble over, hot and spitting with a hiss.   
  
“His mother died five years ago.” Catching movement from the corner of his eyes, the boy watched as the doctor tugged on his tie, smoothing out the silk and keeping it carefully tucked behind his crisply ironed lapels. “So as you can see, while the majority of these families are constructed after what all of you have known growing up, even that isn’t the rule that makes for an ideal family. Plenty of people who come here are at odds with their parents, wish they could find another, not all families indeed get along in the way that they are meant to. But there is that constant between all of them, and in the deepest desires that we know as human beings, Blaine. And that is the desire to have a mother  _and_  a father. Pulled behind a veil, that’s what we long for most.”  
  
The boy sank further still into his chair, until it jarred rather unpleasantly with his tailbone.  
  
“So you see, there  _is_  a natural order to family. There  _is_  a way that we, as an entire species, are drawn to. Anything else falls short, no matter how you try to skew the facts. If given the choice, all of us want to know our fathers, all of us want to know our mothers, and all of us want to be able to get to know both under the same roof, no need to split up our time,” Nicolosi insisted, his voice growing loud and harried, rushed, stuttering with a quickening beat that began to pound through the air and against the walls. “Think of your  _parents_ , Blaine, and how much they’d want that for you. To have a child of your own without giving up the opportunity to your partner and your partner alone. To have the opportunity to help contribute to that miraculous life without earning the eventual resentment of your partner. Think, Blaine, if you ever had a daughter, what this way of life would do to her, society ostracizing her for a choice she didn’t make, and her life with gaping holes that even two fathers can’t fix half as well as one woman. Blaine, I want you to  _listen to me_.”  
  
His hand came down on the desk, rapping sharply with his knuckles and drawing the boy’s gaze, eyes wide, nearly fearful.  
  
Pausing with a ragged sigh, Nicolosi ran shaking fingers through his hair, his hands falling into his lap as the balled into fists, and the reverberation of his voice, previously like a continuous thrum, faded. He looked tired, suddenly ten years older.  
  
“I simply want for you to bear this in mind before our next session. Now go.”  
  
Chair suddenly screeching against the floor, the boy stumbled on his way to the door, still shooting a quick look over his shoulder as his hands blindly grabbed for the brass knob, turning it with a twist of metal and running out, down the halls, watching the gazes of adults turn towards him as he passed. No cries of voices followed him down the hall. No one tried to stop him.  
  
And maybe they didn’t need to, thought the boy, as he yanked the door to his room and slid to the corner of his mattress, legs entangled in threadbare sheets as his eyes trailed down lines of cinderblock. Twisting in the blankets, his knuckles stretched white around the puckered cloth, quickly drawn up and pressed to his eyes.  
  
“Mom,” he choked out, exhaling with a shudder.    

* * *

_February 27th, 2025_  
  
Her hair was a flaxen gold compared to Dorothy’s reddish-brown, but that didn’t stop little Hannah from requesting that her locks be pulled into tight braids draping down either of her shoulders and hanging over her chest. Daddy had, after all, told her that the author of the book never did tell the readers what color Dorothy Gale’s hair was, because Dorothy could be any girl, any girl who wanted to fly elsewhere with a tap, tap, tap of her shoes. Hannah was wearing her newest pair, bright red Mary Janes polished until she could see her own reflection in them, occasionally holding her legs straight to admire the way the light shone on them, just so. She never did tap her heels, though. Only ever the toes.  
  
She had no desire to fly away.  
  
The pictures in the book never moved or changed, so instead Hannah smiled up at her father, blowing through pursed lips and laughing delightedly when a curl of his hair bounced out of place.  
  
“‘But then I should not have had my wonderful brains!’ cried the Scarecrow,” her father read, placing the book neatly on Hannah’s faded blue skirt and poking her in the sides with rigid fingers until she screeched with giggles.  
  
“S- _stop_  it, daddy!” she shrieked, wiggling in his grip. “Strawman’s not that  _hard_.”  
  
“‘I might have passed my whole life in the farmer’s cornfield,’” he continued, pressing a kiss to Hannah’s temple as she gasped to catch her breath, settling again with her back to his chest and holding cooler palms against flushed cheeks. With a sniff, she relaxed to the sound of his voice. “‘And I should not have had my lovely heart,’ said the Tin Woodman. ‘I might have stood and rusted in the forest till the end of the world.’”  
  
Hannah pointed a digit and drove it into her father’s elbow with a twisting motion, giggling as he flexed his joint with a  _creeeeeak_  between his teeth.  
  
“‘And I should have lived a coward for ever,’ declared the Lion, ‘and no beast in all the forest would have had a good word to say to me.’”  
  
Cheeks pink and expectant, Hannah turned to her father, expecting his usual roar. Instead, he looked frozen. And sad. Her daddy did sometimes get this way, and everyone in the house would try to cheer him up, but if they talked too much, he would hide away in his room. That door was too difficult for Hannah to open, and it was scary, and her eyes blinked wide as she wondered how to make him stay.  
  
“Daddy, you’re doing the Tin Woodman, but it’s the Lion’s part,” she whined, kicking her heels lightly against his knees until he startled, glancing down at his daughter, lips parted in lack of recognition.  
  
“…Daddy?”  
  
Pressing his lips together, her father leaned in to leave a kiss against her forehead, an arm wrapping around her chest and pulling her closer. “I know, honey,” he murmured against her ear. “I know.”

* * *

_August 24th, 2011_  
  
If Quinn Fabray’s blonde hair, perfectly coiffed, had been enough to distinguish her from the ever-milling crowd, then her bright pink dye shocked her appearance into something unavoidable on another scale entirely. Even from where Kurt sat towards the side of the lunchroom, the table under his arms vibrating with the weight of Finn and Puck’s not-so-air drums, he was able to spot her entering the room. While her hand no longer rested on its traditional place near her hip, all of Quinn’s wardrobe changes failed to mask the pride which pinned her shoulders back, the sway in her step bolstered by the weight of a messenger bag rather than the swish of a red and white skirt. Students still knew to part at her approach, the rhythm of her walk undeterred and unthreatened.  
  
Practically every member of the glee club had tumbled from grace once or more, but Quinn always clung to that ledge of the pedestal she once stood upon. If nothing else, Kurt could admire her for that.  
  
But he was quickly distracted away from thoughts of Quinn upon seeing that she was dragging another person through the rush of students, any number of murmurs and whispers following the pair as they sat further isolated than even the glee club, parking themselves near the broken soda machine that thrummed constantly with a flickering homage to Diet Coke.  
  
It was Blaine.  
  
“Dude, seven years in a  _row_ ,” exclaimed Finn, shaking Kurt’s attention back to the group briefly, gaze then dropping to his salad. However fantastic it was — warm lobster salad with baby arugula and truffle oil vinaigrette — it didn’t seem capable of holding Kurt’s interest, his fork stabbing at the greens half-heartedly. The sharp sound of plastic against plastic went unnoticed by Finn, who continued to shovel mashed potatoes in his mouth while speaking, the gray color drawing a shudder from Kurt.  
  
“I don’t understand how you can eat that,” muttered Kurt, placing his fork down for good.  
  
“They’ve won for seven years, I don’t understand how you can suddenly turn  _traitor_  on our own state, dude,” Finn continued, failing to notice Kurt. “Michigan’s going down again, I can feel it.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Mike exclaimed, absently running his fingers through Tina’s hair as she rested her temple on his shoulder. His free shoulder raised in an animated shrug, either corner of his lips tugging down. “I can’t explain it, man, I just feel like this year’s Michigan’s year. Besides, the pool is  _pretty_ sweet right now for anyone willing to bet against the odds. Figured I’d try my hand and see if I can’t score enough to take Tina up to Erie for a weekend.”  
  
Rachel huffed plaintively from opposite Finn, lower lip jutting out in a pout, bringing Finn to a stuttering halt. “Look, Rachel, I’d totally love to take the both of us up to Erie too. Heck, I’d take us on a road trip all the way to New York if I could afford it, but I can’t exactly, and while betting on OSU probably won’t win me more than a few bucks, at least it’s better than  _losing_  them,” he remarked, glancing back at Mike. “Which our buddy Mike is about to experience. Seriously, Michigan doesn’t stand a chance.”  
  
Leveling the group with one last unimpressed glance, Kurt pushed neatly out of his seat, careful not to draw any attention to himself as he gathered the tray and tucked his lunchbox back in his messenger bag, making sure to lock the container with a snap. It used to be that lunchtime was a way for him to catch up on Rachel’s latest game plan for next year, or to hear Mercedes rattle off the latest songs she’d added to the list of solos she hoped to perform by the end of the year. Now, both of them seemed more preoccupied with the men they were dating than anything else, and despite his best efforts, Kurt’s eyes skirted over in Quinn’s direction. They were all self-absorbed, she’d said, and for some reason, Kurt couldn’t erase the thought from his mind.  
  
It wasn’t news. It wasn’t anything that he hadn’t known for  _years_  now, and yet the thought settled unpleasantly in his stomach, lodged right near the heavy weight that had him clinging to every detail he could about Lima, even those he’d resented for ages. That quivering fear and excitement alike at a new opportunity drawing close. Whether or not that was the reason for his steps, Kurt couldn’t have been sure, but the next time he blinked to awareness, he found himself hovering by Quinn’s table.  
  
“So Hummel,” Quinn drawled, cheek heavily rested in her palm. “You gonna sit down or just stare the whole of lunch period away?”  
  
“I see you’ve found yourself a fresh new conquest for the year.” Kurt slid neatly into the empty chair next to Quinn, catching a glimpse of dark gold irises when he looked up, then determinedly staring a few inches up into the impressive mass of curls which drew across Blaine’s forehead. “I suppose if nothing else, unruly and unusual hair seems to be something both of you can bond over.”  
  
Twirling a candy cigarette in her fingers, Quinn idly tapped it against her chin. “Jealous?”  
  
Ignoring the flush which quickly rose up the back of his neck, Kurt narrowed his eyes, his expression none too far from a sneer. “ _Hardly_ ,” he countered, glancing between his two companions hands sliding down to his lap, twirling a hanging string around his finger. “What either of you do in your spare time or what friends you make isn’t for me to judge, but I must say that this seems a rather rapid development, taking place at the beginning of the school year. With a transfer student, no less.”  
  
Leaning forward and raising her brows, perplexed, Quinn nodded in Blaine’s direction before leaning back in her chair, arms delicately crossed over her chest, an edge to her voice. “He can  _hear_  you, Kurt. Even if he’s decided that you apparently aren’t worth wasting his breath on, you might want to be a little more careful about the assumptions you make. Judgmental and inexperienced may be just about the worst two traits to combine together, if you ask me.”  
  
Blood rushing to his cheeks, Kurt squirmed in his seat, but when he tried to make eye contact with Blaine to apologize — had he been making assumptions? Weren’t these sheer facts? Moving was never an easy process, nor romance, and if one combined the two together — he felt his heart drop as Blaine turned in the other direction, tugging up the rubber band around his wrist and spinning it idly between his fingers. Only his locked jaw gave any indication that Blaine was indeed listening at all, mouth clamped shut as he gazed across the room. Kurt hunched his shoulders for a split second.  
  
“Look, you’re right,” he confessed, breath leaving him in a huff, and he rubbed at his cheek irritably with a cool palm to settle the rise of color. “I’m not in a position to judge what either of you are doing, I don’t — I don’t even  _know_  if you’re just playing around with my head at this point or if the both of you are going steady, or, god forbid, you’re just friends with benefits enjoying a lunch together.”  
  
“Glad to see we agree on something,” Quinn said with a tone of finality, leaning back in her chair, arms pulling yet tighter around her chest. From the corner of his eyes, Kurt noticed Blaine shifting in his seat, tugged towards her by an invisible rope.   
  
Heart thudding against his ears and through the din of the lunchroom, Kurt shook his head minutely, turning to better face Quinn and smoothing the knit from his brow. “But… friends or not, Quinn, I know you. And this isn’t right.” His eyes skated over her outfit, as though searching for the Quinn that the entirety of the glee club had gotten to know the previous two years, gradually stripped down from flirty skirts and sparkling tiaras. “Dyeing your hair and getting tattoos doesn’t separate you from what’s happened, it doesn’t change who you are. And I just think after  _everything_ , maybe you want to slow down. Focus on yourself instead of just jumping—”  
  
“—I  _am_  focusing on myself, Kurt,” hissed Quinn, eyes flashing. “In case you’ve been out of the loop, it took the start of school for any of you to even _notice_  what was going on with me, and the start of glee club practice to even stir a conversation. So I’m telling you now, it’s too late to do this. And before you go judging Blaine for picking a crazy girl, you might want to try getting to know him first, because  _clearly_  that hasn’t been enough of a priority in glee.”  
  
Squeezing his eyes shut, the words rang in Kurt’s ears again, Rachel’s rapid-fire suggestions of luring Quinn back to glee club with Blaine and everyone’s postulating about the role and archetype that Blaine could play with his appearance. His lips parted; friendship kept them silent. “I met Blaine over the summer, Quinn, believe it or not,” said Kurt instead, but even he could hear the slight keen in his voice, scrambling for ways to justify his presence at that table.  
  
All while a little voice in his head asked:  _why_  exactly did he want to be there?  
  
Quinn’s silence didn’t last long. Glaring, the young woman began to gather her belongings, tossing them violently into her messenger bag and giving Blaine a little shake of her head. “Yeah, well, clearly you didn’t get to know him well enough if you think that he’s in  _any_  way rushing into things,” was all that she said.  
  
“Look, Quinn, I didn’t — I am  _seriously_  not here to pick a fight. I just didn’t want to sit with the glee club today, okay? Can we not make such a big deal over it?” Kurt asked, hearing a touch of desperation in his voice and  _hating_  it, eyes squeezing shut as his palm ground against the textured surface of the lunch table. The problem was, he thought, maybe she was  _right_. Maybe he didn’t have the slightest idea what he was talking about, and he didn’t have a place speaking on situations which, by grace of genetics, Kurt would never find himself caught in. And as he chanced a glance in Blaine’s direction again, he felt a stubborn twist of his stomach, one he broke with a shaking sigh, fingers digging into his hairline.  
  
“Whatever.”  
  
Slinging her bag over her shoulder, Quinn rolled her eyes and left, heels clicking with each step.  
  
Suddenly faced with echoing silence as all the background conversations seemed to fade into white noise, Kurt fumbled with his fingers, gaze skating down the line of Blaine’s neck as he glanced over his shoulder a few seconds later to linger on Quinn’s retreating figure. But as the seconds passed and Blaine remained seated, Kurt swallowed thickly, a few tries falling on failed exhales, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded high to his ears. “I guess someone snuck a bee into her bonnet today.”  
  
Blaine didn’t bother turning around. “Why are you here?” he asked, almost as though to Quinn, who veered off to the side, heading outdoors while most students milled by the main hall.  
  
“I thought I made myself pretty clear,” Kurt replied, blinking once or twice before frowning, suddenly interested in the palm of his hand, running his thumb along his lifeline. “I just didn’t feel like sitting by the glee club today, what’s the big deal?”  
  
“But you chose here to sit.” Still, no eye contact.  
  
“Yeah, because I know Quinn. Or thought I knew her, I guess,” murmured Kurt, his voice falling in volume. “You know, she really—”  
  
“You’re not chasing after her right now,” interrupted Blaine, drawing still another wave to Kurt’s cheeks.  
  
“I think she made it pretty clear that she wanted a bit of time to herself, I’m not about to fight th—”  
  
“Kurt. Let’s try a bit of honesty.” Freezing, Kurt felt the skin of his hand prickle under Blaine’s gaze, freshly directed at him. He felt it threaten to spread, the color of Blaine’s eyes growing dark and pointed. “You’re here for me. Maybe Quinn was the first one you thought about approaching, and maybe you really were tired of the glee club, but whether it’s because Trent wormed his way into your brain or because you’re genuinely that much of a do-gooder, you’re here because you feel obligated to look after me.”  
  
Spreading like wildfire, Kurt would have said. And as it reared its head, Kurt began to recognize the unease for what it truly was.  
  
“Or maybe you’re even attracted to me.”  
  
 _Humiliation_.  
  
“And I’m telling you now: don’t bother.”  
  
Kurt couldn’t find it in himself to be surprised at Blaine’s sudden ability to speak. He couldn’t find it in himself to be struck by the contrast between the young man in the park, eyes trained on some uncertain point in the distance, and the boy who gazed into his eyes now, as though able to see into every nook and cranny of Kurt’s mind. He couldn’t, and didn’t have anything to say, and it was  _different_  somehow than being slammed against closed locker doors, of being shoved at every turn, different even than the shock of slushed ice hitting his skin. Inexplicably, it was worse.  
  
Because every word Blaine said had a spark of truth behind it.  
  
“Trent means well. Just one look at him and you  _know_ , you know he means well,” Blaine pushed on, his voice growing slightly strained at the mention of his friend, and the rubber band between his fingers fell onto the table with a bounce as Kurt watched those same fingers disappear into dark curls. “He and I have been friends for years, he’s always been overprotective and presumptuous, and while  _he_  gets the green flag for that in my life, one’s more than enough. I  _barely_  know you.”  
  
Again, Kurt stared at his palm intently, as though it might suddenly change with another glance.  
  
“So let me make it clear,” said Blaine, tilting his head and holding both arms out in challenge. “I don’t need you. And in case it wasn’t obvious? You’re  _not my type_.”  
  
Shoulders jerking at the sound of elastic snapping, Kurt watched as the rubber band was returned to its usual place, and felt the table shake as Blaine pushed back in his seat and tugged on his pack in one smooth, fluid motion. In the distance, the same white noise persisted, not a single face turned in Kurt’s direction, nor even in Blaine’s as he pushed out of the same door as Quinn had not minutes earlier.  
  
“Sorry,” Kurt muttered, but the words fell on thin air.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Aversion therapy, verbal abuse, depression. This story covers heavy subject material and tries not to pull punches, so be warned.

_August 29th, 2011_

Three times that week, Kurt Hummel came across Blaine Anderson kissing Quinn Fabray.

The first time was by the bleachers. Summer seemed intensely aware of the calendar date, mere days left before eyes would be upon the trees, waiting for the performance of vibrant greens spinning into rustic reds and golds before falling at the feet of an enraptured audience. Not yet at the curtain call, the sun shone merrily in the sky, drawing more than a few gazes of longing to the windows as students bemoaned the time spent indoors. Perhaps playing hooky would have been expected among the younger years, but some mix of responsibility and fear kept most of the seniors inside. Even Puck was dragged into the classroom by a heavily sighing Rachel, who still saw it as part of her responsibility — Kurt could have sworn that he heard some mumbling along the lines of ‘Jewish guilt’ — to make sure that he gave as much of an effort towards their final year as he was capable of.

French was undoubtedly the worst place for Kurt’s own ability to focus. Located on the first floor of the building, one wall enjoyed end to end glass paneling, giving the students inside a view of the football field not several yards away. That it was still scorching outside and the sun was no doubt capable of leaving its burn across Kurt’s complexion didn’t matter; the sky was still painted a perfect azure, the kind Kurt only wished that people knew how to capture in polyester fibers.

Determined to perfect his understanding of the language in the event he was ever tasked with singing Boublil’s original lyrics from  _Les Misérables_ , Kurt chose a seat facing away from temptation, eyes trained on the faded green of the chalkboard and flinching at the steady scrape of chalk.

Naturally, Rachel chose that moment to interrupt, pressing the tip of her eraser against Kurt’s shoulder until he turned to face her, brow knit and eyes glaring in frustration.

“What?” Kurt demanded.

Leaning back as Rachel leaned forward, Kurt felt the tension ease smooth from his brow as Rachel tilted her head in the direction of the window. “ _Look_ ,” she mouthed, and Kurt rolled his eyes, complying if only because he needed for her to stop pestering if he planned on getting any work done that period.

And that was when he noticed bright pink under the flare of sun against silver.

“I  _told_  you there was the potential for something there,” hissed Rachel, sitting back with a smug smile on her face.

Ultimately, any supposed ‘potential’ went unnoticed by Kurt. He found himself focusing on the smaller details, following the smooth line of Quinn’s arm, complexion clear and pale even in the shadows under the bleachers. Arm and arm formed an intersection, and soon Kurt’s gaze trailed along a pair of stronger hands, and he could have sworn that he saw them move to grab at the cloth of Quinn’s shirt, though he would have guessed that the movement was to anchor rather than to explore.

Why it mattered, Kurt didn’t know. Or maybe it didn’t, for Kurt turned away before long, tapping pen against paper as he pressed forward with his work as though nothing had happened at all.

The second time was in the girls’ bathroom. Apparently, even bullying came and went in cycles. The novelty of throwing slushies in the faces of the glee club had diminished over the years. People only ever tried to undercut others when the results were visible, a buckling of knees or the sting of tears visible against dye. And as they’d gained in numbers and experience alike, the glee club came to stand at one another’s sides. ‘Thank you for the wake-up call.’ ‘I’ve been meaning for an excuse to get a facial.’

But with each new school year, old habits resurfaced. Cherry flavoring was likely to remain a cloying scent on Kurt’s black woolen scarf over the next few hand washes, but at least no discoloration marred the deep ebony as Kurt stumbled into the bathroom, making his way to the closest sink and turning the left lever until he could feel the steam heavy under his nose.

Hearing a noise from behind, Kurt paused, blinking through the water which clung to his skin and turning around. It was the hands he saw first, bright against the dark navy of Quinn’s dress, sewn out of some type of fabric which simulated denim. Judging by the thin line of Blaine’s lips as he looked up, Kurt didn’t expect the other young boy to say much.

Apparently, Quinn wasn’t holding her breath either.

“Why don’t you ever use the  _guys’_  room, Kurt?” Quinn asked, raising her brow in challenge as her arms crossed lightly over her chest. Kurt watched as they tensed, falling right on top of the line of Blaine’s own, but a brush of his thumb against her wrist was all it took to calm the blonde down.

“In case you didn’t notice in our first three years here, the slushies tend to be thrown solely by  _guys_ , Quinn,” snapped Kurt, even as a flush rose unevenly to his cheeks. He added, in a mutter, “And in case you didn’t notice, you’ve already brought a guy into the room. One more isn’t going to change anything.”

With a delicately arched brow, Quinn turned in Blaine’s arms, and again Kurt noticed the movement of his hands. Both dug into the fabric, tugged until it was stretched taut over Quinn’s skin, exposing the smooth line of her bra. Kurt couldn’t quite conjure up any witty rejoinder as he quickly tugged a few paper towels out of their dispenser, blotting his skin as he made his way out.

The third time was by his locker. Every day, the break which Kurt dreaded the most was between fourth and fifth periods, the combination of fourth year French and AP American government apparently not one that most students took, and certainly no one in glee club. It meant quickly darting through halls alone, navigating the morass of students who tended to travel in groups of up to half a dozen at a time, and tempering his speed to make sure no one used his momentum to shove Kurt against the locker with resounding clatter. But somehow, it never seemed to matter. There was  _always_  some jock who managed to find him, even on days when he didn’t bother making his wardrobe out of the ordinary.

Kurt suspected it had something to do with the fact that shoving was a practice that almost always escaped notice, and was certainly impossible to prove. Even when they wore the most incriminating of smiles on their faces, Kurt noticed that somehow, no teacher seemed to be willing to call them out in full. Didn’t matter whether or not the teachers believed it. Even Mr. Schue had given up on the effort soon after the principal had made it clear that there was technically nothing that they could do to help Kurt with his plight.

That day had been exhausting. None of it came as a surprise, and on some level Kurt understood, could easily put together the numbers that they’d rattle off on the daily news and know that educators were already running more or less on an empty tank. He knew that anything which would jeopardize the reputation of the school meant less funding, and that making sure everyone had access to a halfway decent education in their area was crucial if anyone wanted to break out. Kurt understood that better than just about anyone else, shuffling by day to the auto shop that would probably end up his main source of income, if New York didn’t pan out, and by night to his dreams, filled with bright lights and a constant buzz of electricity among the crowds in the streets.

And so that day had been exhausting, if only because Kurt knew exactly what to expect: nothing. 

He almost managed to make it all the way through break that time. The government classroom was only about four or five classrooms down, and break was quickly nearing its end, which meant that students finally began narrowing their line of sight to whichever path would get them to their destination most quickly, ignoring distractions to the side. Kurt didn’t mind being a distraction. It was a heck of a lot safer than the alternative.

Again, it was the splash of hot pink hair which drew his attention, and with the pair standing slightly down the hall, Kurt found that it was impossible to ignore the splay of her thin, delicate fingers over the strong line of Blaine’s jaw. Or to ignore the press of their lips, Quinn’s bubblegum pink gloss rubbing off on Blaine’s chapped lips and clashing with the deep red shirt that hung loosely around his shoulders.

He’d been distracted, and as often as Kurt took advantage of that when he saw it in his bullies, apparently it was a two-way street. Hissing in pain as his shoulder slammed against the metal, Kurt swore he could hear the echo deep in his ear as he staggered to find support for his weight, then slid to the ground anyway, the impact jarring to his tailbone and beyond that, humiliating, deepening his complexion to a beet red. Vaguely, he could hear the perpetrator saying something, tone unmistakably lilting in a jeer, but Kurt found that he didn’t have the wherewithal to care, focusing instead on gathering his spilled pens.

Until he watched a shoe slam down, barely missing his fingers by an inch, but firmly landing on the ink barrel and splattering it over Kurt’s shirt in a manner that could have been considered fashionable, if not for the fact that Kurt knew it would be watered out to a shapeless stain when first thrown in the wash.

“What is your  _problem?_ ” Kurt snapped, feeling his hands shake as he glanced up, catching the thin line of brows and a familiar sneer.

As usual, Karofsky spared nothing as he dragged Kurt up, all in the guise of helping the young man to his feet, but the press of his knuckles was harsh enough against the center of Kurt’s chest that he knew there was no mistaking the threat in the action. “My  _problem_  is seeing you every day, sprinkling your fairy dust around these halls like you own the place,” Karofsky muttered, words low enough that anyone passing by could easily say that they hadn’t heard anything at all. “So maybe you’d better watch your step, Fancy. Your friends can’t always be around to watch your back.”

Jaw clenched, Kurt stood stock still until he felt Karofsky release the front of his shirt, slumping back against the metal doors and shivering as the cool surface spread across his back. Only once Karofsky seemed to be leaving in earnest did Kurt allow his shoulders to hunch, fear slithering like a snake in his lungs as Kurt wrapped his arms around himself. Every time he felt strong enough to stand up taller, it seemed like Karofsky was right there, prepared to take him down.

He supposed that went hand-in-hand with being considered a freak of nature among the more conservative families in town.

Only once the bell rang again in warning did Kurt glance higher than the scuffs streaked over the linoleum floor, tugging his shoulder bag higher as he turned towards government class. Unintentionally, his eyes met that bright amber, far more familiar than it had any right to be with the few times Kurt had ever drawn so close to Blaine. And for a second, he found himself confused. Quinn was no longer by his side, presumably having shuffled off to class — in spite of everything that she’d been through, anyone who cared to watch over her could easily see that she was still trying for good grades, and whether it was out of sheer force of habit remained to be seen. But without Quinn by his side, Kurt found that there was something about Blaine’s presence that felt smaller than it should have been, and for all the uneven pants cuffs and unruly curls, the young man would have faded easily for the background. Except to Kurt, it seemed. 

But with his skin still boiling, even Kurt found his view altered, seeing red at the implications of Blaine’s stare. He had seen. He hadn’t said a word. And judging by the acidic drip in his tone at lunch the other day, Kurt Hummel was not only far from Blaine’s type, he was probably someone Blaine felt deserved to be pushed around now and again and put in place.

“It’s not about being  _your type_ ,” Kurt spat as he passed by Blaine, determined to continue straight to class. “It’s about being a decent human being.”     

* * *

_August 8th, 2008_   
  
“And it looks like it’s not going to be any plain potluck, nosiree,” chirped the brunette as she made her way around the kitchen, a roll of Saran wrap clutched tightly in her hand and the pink plastic folding over itself as her feet padded on the hardwood floor. She was the type of woman who never looked out of place in a kitchen like that, a polka-dotted apron tied tight around her cinched waist and waves of dark, glossy hair falling beyond that still. Not all women took easily to domesticity, but this woman wore it as surely as the bow perfectly tied behind her back, shoulders relaxed and entirely at ease. “They’re inviting the church choir to sing off on the side. Everyone in the neighborhood’s going, and they’ve put me in charge of organizing desserts, so I’d better start on loosening the belt by a few notches. If you’re going to have dessert, you may as well go all out.”   
  
A crooked grin rested on the boy’s lips as he sat at the kitchen table, chin resting in the center of his palm as he watched his mother busy herself around the kitchen. Every now and again, he rested his hand against the rounded edge of the table, moving as though to stand and join — and each time, the brunette waved him down with a curt shake of her head.   
  
He could sit and relax, the movement said. Let mother take care of everything.   
  
“It sounds great, mom,” he replied, watching as she stretched the cling wrap over the large glass bowl, perfect spheres of cantaloupe and honeydew complementing each other. “With you at the helm, I’m sure it’ll be unforgettable.”   
  
The boy liked afternoons like these. Quiet and confined, the walls of the house kept him safe. There were no prying eyes inside their home. Everything had its own order. Sometimes, his father would go away on business trips for the weekend, and those were nice as well; his mother would wink, throw their pairs of slippers into the closet, not to be seen again until the following Monday as they reaped the benefits of her attentive housework, hardwood smooth and cool under bare feet.   
  
After all, she’d reasoned the first time after his father had taken up the job, what was the point of waxing the floors every month if they never got to feel it themselves?   
  
“You always were the sweet one,” she laughed then, and the boy enjoyed that too, seeing the way that her eyes lit up, almost taking a different color under the sunlight which shone freely in the room, all curtains thrown aside to take advantage of the remaining weeks of summer. “Now if only your father and brother tolerated these gatherings half as well; I might not have anything more to ask for in life.”   
  
The boy shrugged, hooking his ankles together under the table.   
  
With a final squeak of plastic, the bowl went into the fridge, and the kitchen counters were once again bare, wiped down to a shine through the liberal use of lemon Pine Sol — one of his favorite scents. A mischievous look thrown her son’s way, the brunette reached into the freezer then, unearthing a pint of French vanilla ice cream and sneaking two spoons out of the top drawer of the lower kitchen cabinets.   
  
“You know,” she began, handing one of the spoons off to her son. “I’m sure that the church choir would absolutely love to have you join in for the potluck.”   
  
Freezing briefly, the boy shook his head, reaching for the pint and tugging off the lid, scraping off the fine layer of ice cream which stuck to the plastic. “Probably. But, I don’t know, mom. It’s not really my thing anymore,” he said, brow knitting as he took the spoon in his mouth, melting the ice cream with the flat of his tongue.  
  
“Not the first time we’ve discussed this, I know,” she admitted, similarly scraping off the perfect surface of the ice cream in the carton. “But you used to  _love_  singing with the choir. Used to go out with the boys a lot more than you do now, too. I suppose I’m trying to figure out how to navigate this strange, sophisticated turn you’ve taken since the first time we sent you to California to stay with your grandmother over the summer.”   
  
Silently, he reached for the carton, digging his spoon into the ice cream and unearthing a perfect cone of ice cream, staring for half a second before again melting it with his tongue.   
  
“Oh, no, young man,” she warned, arching a brow. “You’re not going to get away from this conversation by burrowing into the ice cream. A pint only lasts so long; you’ll have to talk sooner or later.”   
  
Shooting a slightly betrayed look her way, the corners of his lips downturned, the boy sighed, shoulders slumping as he stabbed the surface of the ice cream with his spoon. He glanced up, meeting expectant eyes, and his ankles uncrossed under the table, toes digging into the polished wood surface below. The birds continued to chirp in the background. The sun continued to filter inside. Yet he couldn’t help feeling as though a slight hue had spread over the room, faint blue, a touch of green.   
  
The tip of the spoon’s handle pressed against his chin, he sighed. “I don’t think… grandma likes me the way I am,” he said, eyes narrowing, and somewhere deep in his chest, his heart seemed to flutter.   
  
His mother paused; still, the birds chirped. A breeze blew around the wind chimes, ringing sweetly.   
  
“Blaine,” she said, and the boy sighed.   
  
“ _Seriously_ , mom,” he protested, and cursed the way his eyes began to prickle, itching at the corners. “You don’t understand, when I go over there… she doesn’t know how to just take me as I am. We don’t do the things I like. Sometimes she hardly even looks me in the eye, just shuffles me off to these  _people_  so we can share our experiences, and it’s just. I don’t want to go back.”   
  
“Blaine,” she repeated, voice taking on an even quieter tone than before.   
  
“I don’t understand why I need to go.”   
  
Feeling a weight on his hand, the boy started, relaxing only upon realizing that it was her hand, fingers curling over his palm and giving it a strong squeeze. One wouldn’t have expected it from a hand so thin, shapely, but her fingers remained insistent, rubbing his palm in circular motions until his knuckles were no longer white against the wood grain.   
  
“Blaine, your grandmother just wants what’s best for you,” she insisted, a second hand reaching over to envelop his whole hand in warmth. “I know that it can’t be easy spending half of your summers on the opposite coast, but your grandmother has connections. Your father’s tied down here thanks to his job, but you don’t  _have_  to be.”   
  
Lip curling, the boy turned, a small inhale preceding words which clung just barely to the tip of his tongue, but again they were silenced by the look in her eyes.   
  
“Okay,” he said, shifting to scoop another bite from the carton. “I get it, mom.”

* * *

_August 29th, 2011_   
  
Three times that week, Kurt Hummel came across Blaine Anderson kissing Quinn Fabray.   
  
And once, he wasn’t.   
  
As a child, Kurt had considered picking up an instrument on many an occasion. The house was a bit cramped to fit a piano, but the guitar was similarly versatile, the flute equally bright. Many times, he’d stepped inside the local music store, staring at the instruments which shone invitingly on the walls, a few of them catching dust, which was practically unforgivable as far as Kurt was concerned. For weeks, he’d slaved over his collection of CDs, listening to the accompanying instruments in the background, wondering which one best suited his needs, but each time he’d come to the conclusion that he didn’t want to limit himself to any single one, and so the opportunity had passed him by. Weeks of indecision turned into months, and months to years, until the simple task of being a teenager with dreams greater than where he lived became too much to balance against an instrument.  
  
But those CDs, he’d taken with him. Ripped from the plastic, took along with him on his phone, all to be listened to on the next rainy day at the library.   
  
Yet for all the times he’d listened to those CDs, so often carried with him in his bag that each carried any number of scratches on the surface, he was startled to hear the reverberating thrum of a guitar in the air, unique for how it wasn’t fading into the background. These weren’t chords to set the scene. They weren’t harmonies to support a voice. No, the vibrations of the strings rang bright and clear, felt sharply in Kurt’s chest until he found himself slowing on his way to the parking lot, shoulder brushing against the concrete wall as he listened.   
  
If anything, the guitar seemed to be singing.   
  
It was Blaine Anderson who sat on the front steps of the school, arms wrapped protectively around his guitar, arm molding easily against its curved side as his foot tapped rhythmically against the rounded metal edge of the first step, worn down by the thousands of students it’d seen before.   
  
Against all reason, Kurt came to a stop next to the boy, then sat himself down. He took a deep breath, and with it seemed to come the music. Tranquil.   
  
“’The Guilty Ones,’” murmured Kurt, messenger bag laid flat on top of his thighs as he stared up into the unrelenting blue of the sky. “From  _Spring Awakening_ .”   
  
Giving no acknowledgement that he’d even noticed Kurt at all, Blaine continued strumming his guitar, lashes downturned as his fingers plucked out the melody, fingers carefully kept close to the frets, the resulting sound pure and smooth.   
  
“I didn’t take you for a Broadway kind of guy,” admitted Kurt, gaze growing more indistinct still. The sun shone down on his cheeks, his skin already began to feel that noticeable sting, but sometimes Kurt felt that life was nothing more than a series of opportunity costs. And while he couldn’t have explained why, his feet remained rooted to that sun-warmed step, heat reflecting back up through the rubber sole.   
  
“It’s nice,” he said.   
  
Slowly, the song came to a stop, the final notes allowed to find their end as Blaine’s hands hung loose over his knees.   
  
“Quinn cries sometimes,” Blaine remarked then, the sound of his voice startling Kurt, who quickly raised a hand to press at his chest to stave the pounding. “Over ‘Mama Who Bore Me.’ Why’s that?”   
  
Licking his lips, Kurt hooked his hands together, letting them hang similarly as his elbows came to rest on his knees. In the distance, the birds chirped, trilling sharply. Kurt couldn’t remember hearing them during Blaine’s song — but maybe he hadn’t been paying close enough attention.   
  
“Did she tell you about what happened our sophomore year?”   
  
“She assumed that the school would inform me,” he replied, and when the silence persisted, added, “And she assumed correctly.”  
  
Kurt bit his lip, and when Blaine seemed reluctant to meet his gaze, turned his own away.   
  
“Quinn Fabray had everything going for her from the minute she stepped into McKinley,” he said, rubbing his thumb into the palm of his opposite hand. “Beautiful, blonde, smart, thin. Her parents have a  _lot_  of pull in the local community and Quinn’s got the talent to back it up. She may not be the strongest vocalist in our school, but she has the moves and athleticism that, frankly, matter more to people our age. In our  _sophomore year_ , she was already head of the cheerleading squad. Under none other than Sue Sylvester, who may be the devil packaged up in a jersey, but certainly knows what she’s doing in taking only the best for the Cheerios.”   
  
Scuffing his shoe against the step, he paused for a few seconds. “But it’s a lot of pressure to be on top. You see what people are like at this school. The top of the chain gets to pick on everyone below, but  _everyone_  is constantly fighting for that spot. And besides, we’re  _teenagers_ ,” Kurt sighs, rubbing his thumb along a furrowed brow. “We all feel fat, bloated, or pimply at some point or another. But no one’s going to take that seriously coming from Quinn Fabray, of all people. Who’s going to teach her how to cope? Her mother’s like the Midwest version of Eleanor Waldorf, only without the backbone.”   
  
Blaine’s brows furrowed, and the look of confusion ran so contrary to every expression Kurt had seen the boy wear before that he almost laughed at the contrast.   
  
“Never mind,” he said instead, grinning briefly.   
  
“The point is,” Kurt continued, “Quinn’s had to learn her lessons the hard way. And it was a long, long way for her to fall before she got there. She wasn’t prepared for any of it. Not when she practically entered high school with a silver spoon in her mouth.”   
  
And suddenly, there was nothing more to say. The sun still shone high overhead, offered hardly any passage of time as the boys sat side by side, even as the shadows crept over the asphalt. Only when the square was entirely covered did Blaine stand, startling Kurt, who looked after the boy with slight apprehension thrumming tight in his chest.   
  
Blaine didn’t look back, but somehow that afforded Kurt no relief.   
  
“Do you ever think maybe that’s how you’ve built up all that courage?”   
  
Kurt froze, brow knit.   
  
“Maybe you’ve never been what society wants you to be. Maybe you’ve never been able to hide, but… at least you know how to stand up for yourself. Someone’s clearly taught you that.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Aversion therapy, verbal abuse, depression. This story covers heavy subject material and tries not to pull punches, so be warned.

_If you think about it, it’s a dangerous thing to stop dreaming. Dreams are the only things that last in this world. Everything else comes to crumble in time, even the statues that we so carefully etch into stone, likenesses of the great and the important, or even carvings of the ordinary and everyday. The moment you stop dreaming is the moment when you accept your existence as being temporary, delible, and find your footfalls only as substantial as steps through the sand, brushed away at the earliest tide. Terrifying, if you ask me._

There are people with perfect dreams, the kind that will forever in this lifetime remain just past our fingertips. Some people dream of heaven, of pearly gates opening up to us at last, separated from our bodies, the same bodies that will inevitably age and wither, becoming dust as quickly as we gather it. But for the rest of us, dreams peek out at us from behind the corners of reality, waving their hands and nudging us towards paths we may otherwise never dare walk.

At least once in your life, you need to travel down that road.     

* * *

_September 20th, 2011, 9:00 AM_  
  
The surface of the porcelain, cool and smooth, pressed sharply against her back and drove a shiver up her spine. In the distance were steady murmurs which filtered from the classrooms, the occasional bright diatribe falling past the lips of the more jaded teachers of the bunch — the veterans, the worn, the teachers granted free reign by tenure, but who were only counting down the days to retirement on hopefully sandy shores. One pair of ears listened; the other didn’t. The blonde ran the side of her palm along the curve of his shoulder, fingers threading into the curls at the nape of his neck and tugging, pulling him closer, until his lips were within reach and quickly abused by overeager teeth.  
  
“You know that I don’t love you, right?” she asked, once both were gasping for air. However flippantly the statement was delivered, it was her eyes that gave her away, steady, wide, gaze barred only by the deep curtains of fake lashes still meticulously applied in the morning, one of the few habits she retained still from years past. “This…  _thing_  between us, it’s nothing like that.”  
  
She’d broken any number of hearts that way before, and maybe it was from that which she drew fear, cheeks paling even under the heavy application of blush, lurid pinks to match the hues in her hair and wet on her lips. It was the latter that the boy stared at, slightly swollen from the last several minutes.  
  
“Yeah,” replied the boy. “I know.”  
  
Anyone else might have been glad for the smile the reassurance drew across the girl’s face, but there was something about it which didn’t quite belong, didn’t match the façade she’d so carefully raised — perhaps that was why the boy himself didn’t seem to shift or stumble under the brand new revelation. It was, instead, a confirmation of what he’d learned weeks ago.  
  
“Don’t get me wrong,” she said softly but seconds later. “I think you’re a pretty awesome guy. You probably deserve a lot more than being dragged around the school by a washed-up ex-cheerleader, and chances are you could get it if you tried. But after everything I’ve been through, I just can’t. I can’t do that again, I can’t just fall in love and gather up all my former insecurities one by one. Because  _that’s_  what love does to a person.”  
  
He listened patiently, and to anyone else it might have been quite the sight, curls unruly and hips pinning the girl close to the bathroom sink, a pale hand dropping to his belt loop and hooking in. But his face wore nothing but distractions, brow knitting as he leaned in to nip at her lips, careful, measured, and steady. “You have no reason to be insecure,” he breathed against her cheek, thumb brushing up the line of her jaw before his hand settled by the side of her neck, palm pressed to heated skin. “You’re beautiful. And stronger than you know.”  
  
“That’s not what other people say,” she grinned, tone wry as she skated her fingers down his jaw, from ear to chin.  
  
“Other people don’t  _know_  you, Quinn,” he replied, frustration bleeding through as he sighed, pulling back, a shock of cold washing down his front as they broke contact — he could see the immediate effect it had on her expression, light surprise before fading into something more disapproving, her hands sliding up her arms until slotting themselves perfectly against the crooks of her elbows. “Or don’t know how to  _approach_  you. If I didn’t know any better…”  
  
Her brow arched.  
  
“I’d say that you’re hiding yourself away. Making yourself unapproachable, because you’re tired of making yourself available, only to have other people turn away or forget you.” He stared once the words fell into silence, eyes fixed directly on her own, and the girl’s gaze fell away then, as though crumbling under the pressure. She wrapped her arms more tightly around herself.  
  
“How long have you known me?” she scoffed, splintering quickly into a wry laugh. “A month? Two, if you count the few times we ran into each other in the parking lot of the Save-A-Lot.”  
  
“Quinn—”  
  
“This is  _not_  what we agreed upon.” Pushing herself suddenly away from the sink, the girl’s heels clicked against the floor, but only twice before the boy reached out for her wrist. And were she to be honest, for all the strength that he tugged her back with, it was only her willingness to return that had her in his arms again, a soft exhale falling from her lips as her hands braced against his chest.  
  
“I  _know_. I know. I don’t… I don’t meet  _anyone’s_  expectations, okay? I’ve long since accepted that fact,” he muttered, one arm wrapping around her shoulders, his eyes closing as he felt her breath, shaky, fanning over his collarbone. “But maybe you weren’t  _asking_  for the right thing. Just talk to me, Quinn. You’re the only—”  
  
She cut him off with a kiss, sharper than their last, her teeth scraping against his bottom lip, tugging it out until his grip lessened on her shoulders, enough for her arms to slip and snake around his neck. Every time she felt him start to return the kiss, she turned around, changing the strength, the rhythm, the placement, until she could feel the fight bleeding from his arms. And in her mind, she knew that it was unfair to ask for so much, but in her heart, she knew that she wouldn’t be able to handle more in that moment.  
  
“Don’t,” she murmured, once the words had left his tongue. “I’m not your only anything, Blaine. I’m not  _anyone’s_  ‘only’ anything. I gave that up years ago.”  
  
Eyes dulled in color, the boy nodded. “Okay.”  
  
Hand smoothing down the wrinkles in his shirt, bunched where her hands had balled into fists and tugged until he careened into her, the girl’s lashes fell, obscuring her eyes again from view. He wondered what it would be like, were she to remove them.  
  
“You’re not enjoying this, are you?” she asked, running her thumb along the line of his collarbone.  
  
Only when she glanced up did he feel it seeping out of him. Honesty.  
  
“No,” he admitted.  
  
“But I think I still need it.”  

* * *

_September 20th, 2011, 12:15 PM_  
  
There was fear, and then there was foolishness. Sometimes, Kurt felt certain that Will Schuester was intent on packaging the second and selling it off as the first. He’d listened carefully in glee club as his instructor wheeled out three upright pianos, all in various states of wear and tear, and all painted to a near perfect finish with varying shades of purple. The idea of spontaneously bursting into song and spreading it for all to hear was cute — cute and heartwarming, even. It was also the stuff of fantasies. The real world never took very kindly to people who chose to disrupt peace and order; while occasionally, such was forgiven if done in the name of a worthy cause, Kurt truly didn’t believe that anyone, instructors included, would appreciate the glee club making a ruckus during the already highly limited amount of time allotted to lunch.  
  
When various protests were to no avail even within the group, however, Kurt knew that disaster was inevitable.  
  
Indeed, there was a momentary thrill as he stepped up onto the lunch table, shoulders not pulled back quite as far as they might have been were Kurt standing on a stage instead of a table of questionable sturdiness. For a moment, however brief, he finally had the ability to look down his nose at all of his tormentors, of all of the glee club’s various assailants, and knew he had the power to stomp down on their trays and plates if he wanted, delivering a face full of spaghetti sauce and lime green jello. He had enough sense to refrain, of course, whatever adrenaline fear drove into his stomach largely used instead in the acrobatics of leaping from one table to another. In fact, once he felt his energy finally expended to a reasonable degree, Kurt was fully prepared to slink away directly after the number, a point made without risk of reprisal.  
  
Until he noticed that Blaine Anderson was sitting at the end of the table, unruly curls blocking Rachel from view as she twirled in front of him, not two feet away.  
  
Kurt couldn’t have explained what it was that propelled him forward. His emotions all came together in a murky mess, watered down from exhaustion, colors melding until they were nigh indistinguishable. A buzz of frustration seemed to brush over everything else, indignation painted on his cheeks in a high flush and eyes narrowing with the inability to piece out his words and reactions in any logical way. Pride, too, held his chin high, for it was the moments like these that Blaine had apparently noticed. Moments in which Kurt was strong enough,  _proud_  enough, to stand tall and stake a claim on what he deserved: an equal voice.  
  
But beyond even that, his stomach twisted uncomfortably, for it shouldn’t have mattered what that one boy thought. Kurt’s dreams were greater than that, arched high and shining down the streets of Manhattan, splayed across billboards, the same lights he’d seen spelling out his name in his dreams. The thoughts and opinions of one boy, whose eyes could knock the breath out of him quicker than any bully, shouldn’t have carried any weight at all.  
  
Still, Kurt stepped forward, reaching a hand out for Rachel’s shoulder and sliding his fingertips down to her hand. With a quick lace of their fingers, he twirled her on the spot, arm wrapping around her waist to dip her briefly before sending Rachel on her way with a quick bump of his hip against hers. Spinning on the spot, Kurt used Anderson’s curls to spot himself.  
  
On the third turn, he found familiar amber eyes locking with his own.  
  
To the left, Mercedes laughed as she leaned her weight against Shane, other football players staring warily at the pair as Shane bobbed to the beat. Santana and Brittany earned a few catcalls as they spun down the tables, Rachel’s fingers remained perfectly piqued as she pointed affectionately over to Finn, who kept time for the group. And Kurt could feel the thrum of it, a passing hope.  
  
Emboldened, Kurt dropped to his knees, nerves alight as he tilted his body back, arm stretched high until his fingertips brushed against the matte surface of the table. Positioning himself directly in front of Blaine’s seat, Kurt shimmied his shoulders, angling himself just slightly to the right. This was his time, this was his element, pushing the envelope far and fast and waiting for the rest of the world to follow. “We got the beat!” Kurt declared, a modest flush still high on his cheeks and eyes carefully held at half-mast, heart thudding against his sternum.  
  
Silence.  
  
His hair thrown askew by the movement, Kurt could feel strands tickling his forehead, smoothed by the perspiration which clung to his brow. Tentatively, he cracked an eyelid open, gaze landing on a dark slash of brows and a pair of eyes almost unfamiliar for the way they held an almost palpable anger. Numbly, Kurt scrambled to the end of the lunch table, sliding off with hardly any aplomb and backing off to join the rest of New Directions at the front of the cafeteria. Only when he felt Rachel’s hand reaching out for his own did Kurt chance another fleeting look in Blaine’s direction; the boy did not return the gaze.  
  
He felt his stomach drop.  
  
“ _Food fight!_ ”  


* * *

_September 20th, 2011, 12:47 PM_  
  
 _Drip, drip,_  the faucet continued in the distance. Sneakers skidded against the hallway floor, lockers slammed, the white noise of conversation unyielding, like a constantly rising buzz which awaited the telltale ring of the bell.  
  
He couldn’t  _breathe_ . The hinges of the stall door gave another low whine as it swung, and through the corners of his eyes, he could see the mirror only a few feet away. But the person reflected, that person didn’t look familiar.  
  
“What are we doing?”  
  
The words hardly had time to leave his lips, gasp half-formed, before they caught in another kiss.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Aversion therapy, verbal abuse, depression. This story covers heavy subject material and tries not to pull punches, so be warned.

_September 20th, 2011, 12:45 PM_

The rattle of Kurt’s cell phone against the porcelain caused him to look up with a start, blinking through dripping water as he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror before glancing down at the phone’s screen. Five minutes, the alarm warned, until he had to be sitting in class with the rest of the students, and somehow the fact that he knew half of them would show up with their hair weighed down by spaghetti sauce didn’t change how desperately Kurt wanted to wash it out of his own. His clothes, on the other hand, he knew were pretty much a lost cause, unless he planned on showing exactly what he’d bring to the table at a wet t-shirt contest — something told him that the majority of students wouldn’t take too kindly to that.

There was a risk, of course, in washing his face in a public school bathroom. Ridiculous though that sounded. He had to keep his ears carefully open and listening for any opening doors, any creaks or footfalls, the chance that some bully would storm in and shove him against the walls. It happened fairly often. Not usually while he was doing his business, the other students left him enough dignity in that. But boys who felt comfortable shoving him against lockers, both much louder and with a more complex surface, were certainly unafraid of pushing him against the bathroom mirrors, as though they were doing him a favor in giving him more opportunities to stare at his own reflection.

Whenever Kurt could manage, he glanced up, shoulders tensing at every single pair of feet racing down the hall just outside. On the third try, he saw someone standing behind him, wide-eyed and miraculously hardly covered in food. Dark curls fanned across his forehead, irritatingly spiraling in perfect whorls.

“What are you doing here?” Kurt asked, glaring for a moment before rolling his eyes and falling quiet, leaning down towards the sink again to collect more water in his palms and splashing it over his face. He had felt the words so strongly in his chest that biting sharply down on his lip solved nothing, but as soon as they passed through, Kurt felt that he was directing them at the wrong person. Something in him felt angry, perhaps, that he had pulled out this courage, not precisely rare but most often carefully applied, and to what end? The people in the school were hard to influence, if not impossible to. Narrow-minded and unimaginative — those were the words Kurt usually used, words that put the fault and blame on them for being ignorant, rather than attaching any real maliciousness to the other students.

There was little in the world to be done about people who were educated, but still bigoted, and for as long as Kurt could keep himself oblivious to their existence, so he wanted to remain.

“Aside from potentially the obvious,” he muttered, the quieted tone almost an apology carefully applied, wrapped a bit in denial. “Clearly you were better able to make full use of your lunch tray. What’d you do, hide behind one of the jocks?”

“Slipped under the table,” Blaine said instead, surprising Kurt with the sound of his voice at all. “Sometimes being relatively small comes in handy.”

In spite of himself, Kurt smiled. It was faint, brief, not wanting to pass more credit to Blaine before it was due. There were a few people who were nicer to him in moments like these, when there was no one else to bear witness, as though universal kindness were something of a crime. Perhaps Blaine was one of those people, and it was almost sad to think of as Kurt turned the thoughts carefully over in his mind. Made him easy to access, easy to group with the rest, made his habits predictable when so much of the allure to Blaine in the first place had been in that quiet, sleepy part of the park, enclosed and shut off from the rest of the world, and Blaine closed off from it. He couldn’t remember what it was like not to know what Blaine’s voice sounded, only that a part of him had felt as though he could understand how it potentially felt. His own voice, demanding to be loud and noticed, was so often stifled.

But in the same way that there was nothing to be ashamed of in being unique, so Kurt supposed that being so very ordinary wasn’t something to be mocked either. And it wasn’t as though Blaine were entirely normal. He had noticed something beyond Kurt’s surface flamboyance and defiant nature, had hypothesized as to what drove it, what laid down the foundation. Blaine may not have been someone who cared to be special, but he knew how to see things in others that made him in turn special anyway.

Kurt couldn’t tell if he resented that, or if he loved it.

“Class is starting soon,” he pointed out instead. Belaboring the obvious, always a ready fallback. “And fortunately for us all, I can’t remember the last time someone was bullied for washing their hands in the sink next to mine, so you should feel free to go right ahead.” Water dripping down his face, Kurt blindly reached out for a paper towel, dabbing at his face — not wiping, no, not with paper towels with hardly enough absorbency to be deemed better than sandpaper. Once he was able to see without water constantly getting in the way, Kurt frowned down at the faucet, which dripped steadily down towards the drain. One drop every couple of seconds, just enough to worry about wasting water while not yet feeling it necessary to pound his palms into the handles.

Particularly when glancing up showed that Blaine had closed the distance between himself and Kurt, his body emanating a faint warmth to Kurt’s side. Immediately, he turned, a right angle pivoting him in the direction of the bathroom stalls.

“Okay wh… what do you want?” Kurt asked, as perplexed as he was nervous, both hands held up, one with the wet paper towel still balled in his palm.

For a second, they held silent, both staring at the other as laughter rang through the halls in the distance. Throwing a nervous look in the direction of the entrance, Blaine’s lips thinned as he reached out for Kurt’s hand, the paper towel knocked out from Kurt’s grip and tumbling to the floor.

“I hope you’re planning on picking that up,” Kurt said dumbly, mind unable to fixate on anything other than the fact that there was a paper towel on the ground, one that  _he_  was responsible for using, but hardly wanted to pick up now that it had met an untimely, germy demise.

Another couple of seconds, and it struck him — he was holding Blaine Anderson’s hand.

Or Blaine Anderson was holding his.

Although they were, often more than not, marred by the effusive use of graffiti, Kurt appreciated the stalls for what they offered him: an enclosed space, with walls built high. No one was any the wiser about who sat in the stalls, unless they were so bold as to bend down and stare at which shoes were worn, that act in of itself deemed so ‘gay’ that few jocks dared bother. But it was inescapable that said stalls were small, a fact which never became clearer to Kurt until that instant, feeling his shirt slide up against the cool, smooth surface of the wall as Blaine tugged at the door, slamming it shut. (It didn’t remain that way for long, the force of the pull bouncing it back, until Kurt could just manage to spot moving reflections in the mirror only feet away.) 

“What, what’s going on?” Kurt asked, half-expecting for some football player to come slamming through the door into the bathroom, half-expecting Blaine’s tolerance to suddenly run thin and push him further into the arms of the crowd, the morass of the ignorant. What did people do in private areas, after all, but push at each other? Intimidate one another. “Why did you pull me in here, I don’t understand—”

But as he turned to watch Blaine’s eyes again, he noticed that the color stood different than before. Darker, almost angry with the rolling of storm clouds, until the green stood out from the amber. He held his breath as Blaine tugged his hand back, as though burned, and Kurt glanced down until he noticed the stripes of red and pink over Blaine’s palm, proof of impact, of perhaps that damned snapping of rubber bands that Kurt could still hear from the first time they met.

Blaine’s gaze flickered down, then up, as though asking a question, and one that he refused to put a voice to. Already, Kurt could feel his cheeks heating, but he couldn’t place his finger on  _why_ .

“Okay,” he said anyway, curiosity bleeding through.

The effect was immediate.

_Drip, drip,_  the faucet continued in the distance.  _Creak_ , the stall door went as Kurt found his shoulder blades thudding against the stall, and he couldn’t tell if he’d been thrown back by the sheer force of the moment, or if indeed Blaine’s hands had touched his shoulders, had pushed them. He stared in fascination as Blaine stepped closer, and only then did it really strike Kurt that Blaine was just about his height, perhaps even a bit shorter, in a way that one would never have expected of such a storm cloud. Breathing, he raised his hand, only for it to fall again through air.

Blaine was the first one to close the distance, a palm dragging down the front of Kurt’s vest, pinning his side to the stall. Lips met lips, and Kurt could have guaranteed that it was only Blaine who managed to keep their contact neat and just as it should have been in a kiss, because Kurt had never kissed anyone before, not meaningfully, not in the way that they were doing now, deliberate without being entirely  _conscious_ . He gasped, only just in time, lungs filling and head dizzied as his brain belatedly began taking down the details, the way that Blaine’s lips were slightly chapped, slightly dry, but only from overuse and not due to the lack of care. There was the taste of lip balm, cherry instead of root beer, and through the slightly sour smell of marinara, Kurt could detect a hint of fragrance. Quinn’s, probably.

That was the only trace of her there, however. And it quickly slipped from Kurt’s mind entirely as he felt the warmth and velvet of Blaine’s tongue tracing his lip, heard the shortness of Blaine’s breath, how it stalled and started and was anything but the even presence that Kurt came to expect of the other boy.

His heart caught in his throat.

When they parted, it was only after a slight surge of Kurt’s mouth, trapping and tugging at Blaine’s upper lip, until they fell apart with clouded eyes. Kurt’s eyes widened, gaze skirting to the side, and the reflection should have been one that he knew, the clothes the same, the height the same.

But that person didn’t look familiar.

“What are we doing?” he asked.

The answer came in the form of another kiss, this one nearly violent, punching the air out of Kurt’s lungs. A soft moan thrummed in his chest, and he felt it echo in Blaine’s, their hands prying without searching, Kurt’s fingers tentatively running down the rough line of Blaine’s jaw. But.

“Nnn,” Kurt protested, hands sliding down to Blaine’s chest and pushing him slightly, until they parted for a second time. The buzz in the distance fell back into place again, yells and jeers still clear in the distance. “You owe me an answer I can understand.”

Glancing up once more, Kurt was met only with silence.

“You owe me an answer I can  _understand_ ,” Kurt repeated, elation quickly falling at his feet and bleeding dry. “What, are you — are you gay? Or are you just making a statement? Or are you just  _screwing_  with me, because trust me, if it’s the last, you don’t need to, my brain is doing a well enough job of that already whenever you’re around.” 

He could see Blaine’s jaw tensing, and found himself acutely aware as Blaine’s hands slid away. “Can we not put labels on this for  _one_  second?” Blaine asked, with those words tearing himself away, Kurt standing with a stunned expression, lips falling ajar.

Kurt could recognize the look in Blaine’s eyes, panicked, like the first time Kurt came back from school and learned that there were different ways in which one could have affection for other people. That some were accepted, others reviled. That he was expected somehow to become some girl’s prince when all that he wanted to do was lean on a prince in turn. He could see that, however deeply it was buried under anger, denial, a jaded and worn surface like leather which had spent too long heating under the sun.

“I’m not trying to label you,” Kurt murmured, feeling alarm climb high on his person until it lodged in his throat. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Feels like you are,” Blaine retorted immediately, Kurt’s brows raising in surprise.

“Sexuality isn’t a label to me. I know that’s what school makes it into and what society makes it into, but I’m not trying to tape a word on your forehead,” implored Kurt, sighing through his teeth. “I’m trying to understand  _you_. Trying to understand why you just…  _kissed_  me.”    

* * *

_June 10th, 2009_

  
There was a safe haven that the boy finally learned to access in his third year of the program. Third summer, rather. It wasn’t his third year yet, and in some ways he wondered if it would ever be — distance, they said, had this tendency of undoing the progress made throughout every three months they spent in the facility, with the sun hanging high overheard, burning, as though capable of seeing through the fog each child held around their eyes.   
  
Doctors would insist that they were all children. It didn’t matter if they were four years of age, or nearing forty. All came to the place seeking a reinvention of self, and so they were but children, led around on leashes, children whose hands were gripped tight, knuckles stretching white. Children who weren’t supposed to be returned to the corrupt world without first being ready. The boy, they said, was never ready, and many times they made the plea to keep him through the year, to keep his eyes from straying. But every year his grandmother carefully refused, eyes thrumming with the beat of mayflies’ wings against the calm summer lake. They granted him reprieve.   
  
With that came the dread.   
  
It was in his third year that the boy found his first measure of relief. The woman — he thought of her as a woman, for she seemed unashamed of the curves of her body, brazenly hiking up the hem of her uniform — was in truth only three years older than the boy. But one wouldn’t have been able to tell, her eyes shadowed and wrinkled at the corners, crumbling in a way that had everyone doubting when she called them smile lines. The boy had seen them before on his mother, and these didn’t quite compare.   
  
“It’s my last fucking year here,” she confided to him one day during their free hour, the sprawling field in front of their eyes beautiful and rolling with the summer breeze, emeralds overlaid with the gold of the sun’s rays. “I graduated from high school this year, and I’ve got a handful of college acceptances that I kinda clutch to, because they’re the most valuable things I’ve ever owned. My tickets to freedom. They think that I’m going to BU, Boston University. My parents will drop me off at the airport — I told them that I’d be fine setting everything up myself, that I had a campus dorm. I’m actually going to Smith.”   
  
The boy stared at his palms, wishing that he had anything to offer in return, tales of bravado or promises to leap far and fly away entirely from the cage, but in truth, the thought scared him. He could not imagine being unable to return to the kitchen, to feel hardwood floors underneath his feet as he watched his mother fold and knead dough, wedding ring carefully placed on the side of the windowsill, where it caught the gleam of sunshine. He could not imagine lying to them, not even his older brother, whose gazes had slipped away, uncaring, long ago.   
  
So he listened, because that was all that he had in his possession. The ability to listen.  
  
“They think I’m pretty much cured. Maybe I am. I learned something here, Anderson. Learned to give them exactly what they want, and… all I can hope is that someday, what ‘they’ want will align with what I want.  _That’s_  why I’m disappearing. There’s nothing for me here,” she said, and she held a thin branch between her fingers as though it were a cigarette, brightly lit. “But I’ll pass the lesson on to you, Anderson, because you don’t look like you want to fight.”   
  
Amber eyes glanced up, narrowing lightly, in time to catch the fanning of lashes over powdered pink cheeks, drawing close. He expected the brush of lip balm, cherry perhaps, or the cloying stickiness of gloss. Instead, he found himself met with the press of lipstick, almost chalky against his mouth, old like the rest of her seemed to him right then. She carefully brushed over the line of his jaw with her palm, then pulled back, as though burned.   
  
The kiss lingered, however. Cloying where her lips weren’t.   
  
“Not too much funny business now,” a voice teased from a distance, but in spite of the words, there was no real anger or scolding. The boy felt his breath shorten, his frame trembling out of something much like fear, discomfort which had him crawling in his skin.   
  
He caught the glimpse of a smile as she pulled away, both of them turning to watch the retreating figure, the rapid progress of a pen over paper.   
  
“Watch,” she declared, spinning that branch between her fingers. “They’ll leave you alone for a week.”

* * *

_June 17th, 2009_   
  
“You know,” she remarked, “were you a couple years older, I don’t think you could’ve even paid me to do this.”

* * *

_September 20th, 2011, 12:50 PM_   
  
The bell rang.   
  
“It’s okay,” Kurt murmured quickly, eyes widening as he watched Blaine’s complexion blanch completely, leaving his skin pale, clammy. Perhaps he’d mistaken the careful and calculating look in Blaine’s eyes for something that it wasn’t — experience. And he remembered. He remembered how confused he’d been all those years ago, when it turned out that words could be and often were attached to the way he felt. As all words did, they lent weapons to those who would use them.   
  
Labels, Blaine had said. He didn’t want  _labels_ .   
  
“It’s okay if you’d rather not—”   
  
“It’s not  _okay_ .”   
  
Kurt stopped, blinking at Blaine.   
  
“Don’t you understand?” Blaine asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, arm already reaching out for the stall door, shoving it until it bounced against the next stall. “This isn’t right. This isn’t natural. And everyone out there,  _everyone_ , even the people who love us, they think that this is weird, or sick, or just — just  _wrong_ . It will never be anyone’s ideal, Kurt.”   
  
The faucet continued to drip, a drop falling free as the door closed behind Blaine.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Aversion therapy, verbal abuse, depression. This story covers heavy subject material and tries not to pull punches, so be warned.

_September 23rd, 2011_

The trouble that came with school days was that Kurt found himself juggling so many responsibilities that there was little time to tend to personal matters and soothe frayed nerves. With senior year came the need to put forth a final push towards applying for the school of his dreams, and weekdays were spent simultaneously working on a campaign for senior class president and piecing together an audition for the lead role in  _West Side Story_ . There was a part of Kurt that felt closed off as he watched the rest of his friends, as though separated by a pane of glass. While everyone else was tangled up in romances both healthy and ill-advised, Kurt spent his afternoons switching without pause from one activity to the next. He carefully obtained permission from Rachel to borrow a Streisand number for his musical audition, and he pondered on the many issues which he could bring up in front of the school populace to convince them of his fervor, his desire to look out for each one of them, and his belief in the ability of teenagers to step up to the plate wherever adults couldn’t or hadn’t. Papers littered his room, scattered in uncharacteristic piles all over his desk, and on some evenings Kurt had even taken to the hallway bathroom for his moisturizing regimen.

In some ways, keeping so busy was nice. There was no room for emotional turmoil. There was no room for obsession, no sleepless nights as Kurt slipped under the covers and surrendered to exhaustion. Being able to devote his time almost wholly to matters that he cared about felt good, because he loved performing, and he loved the idea of encouraging change in a community that needed it. Every step felt like a confirmation of what Kurt had set his eyes on a couple of years back, when glee had started to shape his life. He loved the stage. He loved commanding attention.

Come hell or high water, he would find a way to keep doing so by next fall.

But there was still that weight which rested on his chest, the one that kept his eyes wide and watchful as he walked the school halls, looking out for that familiar head of reckless black curls. He didn’t spot them for the rest of the week.

With Friday came a bit of spare time, a relaxed schedule in honor of the weekend which was to come, and Kurt paused in the middle of campaign strategizing to flip on his phone, scrolling through the contacts. It struck him, then, that even if he wanted to address that discomfort which twisted through his chest, that he didn’t know the first place to start. He didn’t have Blaine’s number, he didn’t know precisely where Blaine lived. He had no right to tread the water there anyway — they weren’t friends, they held no obligations to one another. That Blaine had walked so surely out of Kurt’s life and as quietly as he’d treaded in it felt unfair somehow, as though Blaine had tracked dirt into places in Kurt’s chest that he hadn’t yet discovered. But such things happened, didn’t they? The majority of people in the world brushed by each other without a second thought, nothing more than a few spared glances before going on with the rest of their lives. The only reason why this time stood out was because Kurt wanted to believe it unfinished. To think that his own presence wouldn’t go wholly forgotten.

Idly, he continued punching through his contact list for someone to talk to, someone who could help lighten the load, but with each name came an excuse — Rachel and Mercedes were caught up wholly in their auditions, Finn was soul-searching at the tire store (which necessarily meant that Burt was there to supervise), Mike and Tina were at turns collaborating and at odds in ways Kurt couldn’t begin to keep track of. His eyes narrowed slightly when Quinn’s name came up on the phone; he’d forgotten that they had exchanged numbers in New York. All of the glee club had, really, to ensure that none of them would get lost or wander too far.

Funny, he thought, how rarely some of those contacts went used.

His scrolling stopped when he came upon Trent’s name, and in the light of everything else, Kurt decided to press dial. Running his fingers through the strands of his hair, Kurt fell back upon his pillow, exhaling as he held the phone to his ear, staring up at the shadows which stretched across the ceiling.

“Thought you’d never call,” Trent greeted, a muted quality to the brightness of his voice, probably drawn there for the single thread which held them together.

“I wasn’t sure that I would either,” confessed Kurt, lips pressed together in a sheepish grin. Silence hung for a couple of seconds before he shifted onto his side, one arm tucked awkwardly between his body and the mattress, pins and needles settling along the skin. “And I’m afraid to ask that this time, I’m calling to kind of… ask a favor.”

“Don’t worry about it. As far as I’m concerned, I owe you one for listening to me about Blaine that time.”

Kurt winced. “About that…”

A pause, then Trent spoke again. “So what’s the favor?”

There weren’t any situations from which Kurt could draw comparisons. He was the only out gay boy at the school, and after being proven seriously wrong with Sam, Kurt was hesitant about drawing too many conclusions about people he didn’t know well. As such, he had no idea what it was like for other boys to come out, had no idea how it changed or colored the perceptions people had of them, how it perhaps changed the way they spoke about him. For Kurt, coming out had been such a personal matter, one which affected him every single day as he stepped through the school halls — and more importantly, he was sure of how much all of his friends and family knew to respect the matter.

Did Trent know that Blaine was gay? 

Could he have known, and not told Kurt? Or was it possible that Blaine was caught in the same situation that Kurt had been in for years, in the closet and unsure of how to break out, afraid of the preconceptions, the bullying, and most importantly of shedding away that which had protected him for so long: denial.

On the off chance that Trent knew nothing, Kurt held his tongue.

“I was wondering if you knew his grandmother’s phone number,” said Kurt quietly, and though he allowed the conversation to skip a beat, he pushed forward with his explanation. “I know that it’s asking a lot. Frankly, Blaine and I aren’t friends by any stretch of the imagination, but I don’t know what it is, I — I just care about what happens to him.” His eyes, wide, blinked suddenly as Kurt felt them run dry. “And from what you told me, a starting point might be talking to her about those missing summers.”

There was the sound of rustling fabric over the phone, then the steady fall of footsteps. “Hold on,” Trent replied, before the sounds were muffled further, perhaps by the press of a palm.

Preemptively, and just barely allowing himself to hope, Kurt slid off the bed and made his way over to the mess of papers on his desk, pulling out a pen from his drawer. Soon, the silence in the room was punctuated only by the tap of his pen against the desk, quick and frenetic, his foot jiggling with every knock on wood.

“Okay, I have it,” Trent spoke without warning, and Kurt gripped his phone that much tighter. Holding his pen too tight, knuckles tensing to white, Kurt scrawled the number into his notebook.

“Thanks,” murmured Kurt, sitting further back in his chair and tugging both legs onto the seat, wrapping his free arm around his knees, the pen hanging heavily from his fingers.

A soft laugh, twisted wry, sounded from the other side. “Don’t thank me, Kurt. You’re about to do what I never really had the courage for.”

Licking his lips, Kurt smiled, somehow comforted by the knowledge that it couldn’t be seen. “Yeah, I’ve been told I do that.”

When his first call came across nothing more than the answering machine, Kurt shut off his phone and slid into his covers, staring at the pattern of his sheets. It was easier to be brave on the drop of a dime, and a part of him was disappointed that he’d need to pull that same emotion out of himself for at least one day longer.   

* * *

_September 24th, 2011_   
  
“Hello, Patricia Anderson speaking.”   
  
Truth or lie. The clipped tone which sounded through the phone made it clear that there was a decision to be made — dare he tell the truth, or was it better to remain obscured behind a lie? Kurt sat on his bed, a pillow tucked between his chest and his arm, fingers brushing through the fringe.   
  
“Hi, Mrs. Anderson,” Kurt greeted, voice pitched high and heart thudding with the certainty that he’d be found out. If his grandmother was even half as sharp as Blaine, she’d probably see right through him and slam the metaphorical door shut. “I’m a friend of Blaine’s from school, and I was wondering if you had five minutes to talk?”   
  
“Oh.” The voice softened considerably, and Kurt refrained from letting out a sigh of relief. “Why, hello dear, this is quite the surprise — I’ve never heard from any of Blaine’s friends. How may I help you?”   
  
“Yes, thank you. Um.” Pausing, Kurt ran his fingers through his hair a few times, until the strands stood at odd angles, brushing against his palm. “Recently, I’ve been talking to Blaine at lunch, and, and sometimes between classes. Generally, he’s friendly, and I can tell that he’s a smart guy. But whenever I try to ask him what he did over the summer, he gets a little quiet. I guess I wanted to find out if there’s anything I should know.”

* * *

_September 26th, 2011_   
  
“Where’s Blaine?”   
  
Her eyes weren’t quite green under the shade of the bleachers, sapped by the shadows which stretched in parallel lines until they faded into a sharp, splintered gray. It didn’t stop them from dripping with acid. “Sup, Kewpie,” greeted Quinn, lips upturned with no amount of mirth as she tilted her head, a tendril of cigarette smoke curling around her wrist like a faded chain. “I don’t remember telling you that you had permission to hang out under the bleachers during skank hours. Frankly, I just don’t think you can rock the look, although you’re free to try and prove me wrong.”   
  
His hand shot out, swinging up until it clanged against the metal of the step, the jarring sound enough to pull Quinn’s lips softly together, words fading on the tip of her tongue. “I’m not looking for a fight, Quinn, I just need to know where Blaine is,” he insisted, eyes wide. “ _Please_ .”   
  
“Let me guess,” Quinn sighed, tapping her finger against the side of the cigarette, knocking a few ashes to the ground. “You figured out that Anderson’s swing vote takes a glance at your ass every now and then and suddenly, you’re excited to have  _finally_  found someone who bats for your team. Give it up, Hummel. The whole school knows that he and I are dating.”   
  
“Oh, is that what you call it?” Lip curling in contempt, Kurt tried his best to fight his frown, the smile which drew across his face one which shook with the force of his anger, barely contained. “Because I was under the impression that the two of you don’t actually have feelings for each other. That you’re just using him to make sure that you don’t topple off the bottom rung of the social ladder. You know, the one you swore that you didn’t care about at the end of our sophomore year.”   
  
Quinn leaned forward, eyes narrowing with a laugh. “I  _don’t_  care about what other people think of me, Hummel. Read into my actions all you want, but—”  
  
“You know, Quinn, I understand caring about social status, believe it or not. Even though I know that I’m forever going to be an outsider looking in, I  _understand_  the desire to fit in and to be popular and to get along with the school. I understand how much having a boyfriend probably acts as a shield to ward off the unseemly and the odious, or even just the overly prying noses of high schoolers, so I don’t blame you for wanting that cover story,” replied Kurt sharply before she got a word in edgewise. “But you chose the  _wrong_  guy to put into that position, Quinn. Blaine has bigger things to be concerned about right now than keeping up appearances with some girl he doesn’t even love.”   
  
Slowly blinking, Quinn’s lip curved further. “And here I thought that I couldn’t dislike you any more than the first time we met, but I think you may have actually managed to push that line.”   
  
“For what, trying to help Blaine find his true identity?”   
  
“You’re one of the lucky ones, Hummel,” Quinn pointed out, smile fading. “Because you’ve got this crazy sense of self and  _no_  one’s ever been able to change that. You’re comfortable being you. You’ve caved to other people’s expectations before, but you  _always_  come back to being this Alexander McQueen-wearing, Liza Minnelli-worshipping guy. Maybe not everyone’s found themselves yet.” Dropping the volume of her voice, Quinn glances to each side before drawing closer, words dropping to a hiss. “Maybe Blaine’s not willing to throw himself under the bus yet for something he hasn’t completely figured out.”   
  
At a loss, Kurt felt his stomach dropping out under him, a faint chill passing over his skin before he shook his head at Quinn. “I’m not going to  _out_  him. I would never—”   
  
“No,” said Quinn. “You’re just going to find him and  _talk_  it out of him.”   
  
“Well, he needs someone to talk to! Did you know that his grandmother—”   
  
Suddenly, Kurt felt the press of a finger against his lips, and Quinn’s eyes bore into his own, her lips pulled thin. Behind him, he heard the sound of voices chattering and drawing close, the quiet murmur of people trying not to be overheard. “Not the place or the time,” Quinn said, hiking the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder before she turned around, leaving Kurt to stare at her retreating back.

* * *

_October 10th, 2011_   
  
“Much as I appreciate the nod towards my obviously stellar managerial skills as evidenced by my success with erstwhile client Mercedes Jones, it’s quickly become clear that your goal in bringing me here today isn’t to have me manage your campaign strategy,” declared Lauren as she sat herself down next to Kurt on the bleachers, the pair of them idly watching the Cheerios as they ran through one of their grueling routines. “Seeing as how you’ve continued with using the very motif that your main competition has more or less usurped from you  _weeks_ ago, now.”   
  
His thumb pressed between his teeth, Kurt watched the steady kicks and twirls from the cheerleaders on the floor. In many ways, he missed it, that feeling of belonging to a group that seemed destined for success, constantly winning matches and earning the respect of those at the school. Kurt remembered the few months for which he’d been teased a little less, bullied a little less, all because he wore that telltale uniform of red and white, Sue Sylvester’s protection worn brazenly over his shoulders.  
  
“Word on the street’s that you’ve got that Anderson kid on your radar,” she continued, Kurt immediately turning with a furrowed brow, lips pulled thin. “Aw, don’t give me that look, hon. We’re lookin’ out for ya. Don’t want a repeat of the Finn Hudson incident, do we?”   
  
Leveling Lauren with another look, Kurt shook his head, hand rising to the back of his neck and rubbing from side to side. “I’m considering a change in my campaign message,” Kurt confessed, threading his fingers through his hair and carefully arranging the strands, a movement subconscious as his eyes continued to trail back towards the flipping teens on the gym floor. From her corner, Sue gave Kurt a glance, to which he responded by shaking his head. “The message about rising teenage obesity—”   
  
“—yeah, I personally found that to be kind of offensive—”   
  
“—is trite. Overdone. It’s already a concern in the local papers, it gets highlighted all too often in the national news. I may as well be proclaiming to the world that our math and science curriculums need revisiting,” Kurt went on, shaking his head as he fixed his gaze on Lauren, who sat with her fingers laced, nodding along with the thought process. “And… I figured that you were the most likely to actually give me  _active_  criticism on whatever idea I come up with in its stead.”   
  
Pursing her lips, Lauren nodded. “Probably a fair call. Though I still demand that my special interests be properly represented should you take office. New equipment for the wrestling team.”   
  
“Yes, yes,” frowned Kurt, waving his hand dismissively. “I’m serious, Lauren, I want to make sure to leave a lasting impact when I go to make my speech. God only knows that my chances are slim already, I may as well at least try and talk about something that’ll resonate with the sparse crowd.”   
  
For her part, Lauren indeed seemed to sober, a heavy hand clapping Kurt on the shoulder with a hearty smack. “Cough it up, then, Hummel. Your list of ideas.”   
  
“ _Idea_ , more like,” Kurt said with hesitation, pressing his fingers to his lips before letting out a slight exhale. “I… want to talk about bullying.”   
  
She remained silent for a few seconds, before giving a nod, firm and resolute.   
  
“And I’m asking for your help because I  _need_  for them to hear me.” 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Aversion therapy, verbal abuse, depression. This story covers heavy subject material and tries not to pull punches, so be warned.

_August 13th, 2011_

“Blaine Anderson. You know, I have to admit that I’ve been waiting to see when you’d stop by for your exit interview,” the man remarked, his voice carrying the brightness of fluorescent lighting and smooth ceramic tiles, the likes of which lined both the room and between the rosy hue of his lips. “As much as I’d hoped to see your sunny smile around these parts for a while longer, I always knew you weren’t long for this place. Quick learner, fast thinker, you are.”

From head to toe, the man was the very picture of control. Thin, tapered fingers brushed over curly, chestnut brown hair, not a single strand out of place. His suit, ash gray and immaculately pressed, fell with creases in all the right places, and the dark green handkerchief tucked away in the front pocket matched the hue of his eyes. Where most people wore their glasses slightly crooked, the man’s remained as straight as the bridge of his nose, falling directly parallel with the file which was laid out across his desk.

Seated across from him, a young man glanced down, expression impassive, save for a tight, forced smile which graced his lips.

“I’m not sure about fast thinking, sir,” he replied quietly, and in spite of his best efforts to keep his voice even, one could easily detect a slight quaver which ran underneath. “You have a great facility here. I’ve been very blessed these years to have the support and guidance of so many people genuinely concerned for my well-being.”

“Call me Robin,” said the interviewer, the tone of his voice managing to turn more cloying still. “None of this sir business, not when you’re just a few questions and a release form away from going  _home_ , and for good! Unless, of course, you ever decide that you would like to come back and act as a mentor for our younger kids. I certainly do wish that more of them might come to see this place as you do.”

“I will certainly consider it,” the young man offered with a nod of his head, folding his hands together on his lap. Unable to quite meet the unrelenting emerald green of Robin’s eyes, he glanced down instead at the file, searching for questions — there were none to be found.

He would have to think fast, indeed.

Robin stared forward for several seconds, eyes unblinking, before he smiled a thousand fluorescent watts and glanced down at the case, pulling it closer and wrecking the symmetry in one fell swoop. Curls fell in front of his eyes. Creases nudged out of place. His glasses slid slightly down his nose, but everything in its own clipped time. “Atta boy, Anderson. I knew I could count on you. Now…”

The smile flickered off, replaced instead by the flutter of pages as they flipped easily under Robin’s fingers. “What I find very fascinating about your case, Blaine — I can call you Blaine, can’t I? — is the fact that your… revelation, as it were, seems to have come pretty late and pretty suddenly in your time here. For the first two years, all that it says here is that you were very reluctant to yield to the advice of your counselors, of your mentors, and that in fact, you were very eager to spread your opinion among the rest of the patients here. That you were at turns reticent or completely outspoken. Your grandmother, in fact, expressed concern over whether or not this program was a right fit for you.” Robin glanced up, flashing another smile. “One step forward, three steps back, shall we say.”

The young man nodded, holding eye contact for as long as he could. Somewhere along the line, he’d read about how that was key to forging trust and injecting sincerity. Eye contact. The guilty could never manage it.

“So I guess my next question is fairly straightforward,” Robin said, dipping his chin as though mirroring the young man’s nod. “What changed? Because, don’t get me wrong, I realize that there is always a  _moment_  when we decide in the shift from no to yes, but if there’s a specific part of our program that you found especially effective — we might be able to highlight it more for others in the program, you see? You could be helping a great deal of other confused young adults find themselves without so much of the trouble.”

Pausing, the young man’s eyes slipped down for only a second, coming to a rest on Robin’s hands, busy fingers having found a new toy in the form of a tortoiseshell fountain pen.

“It was probably the free time, to be honest,” he said, voice quiet, but firm. “Having the same message constantly drilled in my mind had a way of making me dig in my heels. But spending time with people who were on the cusp of being released and hearing what they had to say about it was one of the most valuable things I could have ever done.” Gaze momentarily skirting to the side, the young man quickly pulled back his shoulders and offered a second smile, holding it steadily until Robin’s gaze relented.

“Free time that you spent with?” Robin asked, scribbling down a few notes, his pen flying so quickly across the paper that the boy had to wonder if he was indeed taking down legible words at all.

“I… don’t think there was any particular person,” he answered, even though he could practically smell the scent of freshly mown grass in the air, could feel the cloying texture of lipstick against his lip. The folds which crinkled by her eyes — they would have given her away, given him away. Already, he was starting to think of them as smile lines, indeed. The way they would have spread if she saw him now, still caught in the palm of their hands. “It was just speaking to those with greater tenure than myself. Those who were further along than I was. Spiritually.”

The pen shifted, catching a glimmer of light. “And let’s talk about that, shall we? No more inclination towards other men? You don’t catch yourself glancing their way, wondering, thinking?”

“It was a phase,” the boy replied, the corners of his lips twitching down, then up. “With all the messaging out there today about acceptance and diversity, I came to believe that one of the very basic biological truths could also be bent, and I think I… at home, with my brother so often being the center of the family, I thought I could call more attention to myself. That’s why I sing. And everyone knows that I have a certain affinity for the seventies. I just took it too far.”

A neatly trimmed brow raised, and that same bright green flickered up, then down towards the paper. “Spoken well, Blaine.” Robin tapped his pen against the paper, a bright cadence as he smiled widely. “You really have it all down, don’t you? The cause, the effect. The associations. And a final admission of the true state of affairs.”

“Good program,” the boy repeated.

“You’d think so,” Robin sighed, leaning back in his chair and tugging one leg over the other. “But some people aren’t born with common sense.”     

* * *

_November 15th, 2011_   
  
The thin elastic cord dug against sensitive skin under Kurt’s chin, but that was nothing compared to the discomfort caused by the watchful eyes of dozens who sat on the bleachers, their gazes tugged left or right in unison for the electoral speeches. In all of the practices Kurt went through with Lauren, there was only one tactic that had yielded what she claimed to be the best result. And that was delivering the speech as if to only one person — the message written for the collective, but really only intended for one. Problem was, of course, that right then he couldn’t find the  _one_.  
  
Left and right Kurt glanced, spotting familiar faces in the crowd. What felt like the largest audience Kurt had ever faced on his own was in fact hardly a significant sample of the student base at all. The members of the hockey team were present. Assorted members of the glee club, as well. Perhaps most imposing of all were the dozens of chattering girls in bright red and white uniforms who sat as a collective, laughing with the full knowledge that there was only one thing more effective as a weapon than heckling: ignoring a speech altogether.  
  
But that was fine, he thought to himself, raising his chin and offering a wavering smile nonetheless. Because there was one person in that crowd whose opinion outweighed the rest of them combined. And that was his dad, polite enough that he even sat through and listened to the entirety of the speech preceding Kurt’s own.  
  
There was a lot riding on this election. A lot more than popularity or acceptance within the halls of McKinley. More than the invisible wall which stood between himself and Rachel Berry, who kept on shooting longing gazes in Kurt’s direction, fidgeting more than she ever had for a New Directions performance. More, even, than the prospect of college applications, all of them looming over Kurt’s head and drawing him to the constant and never relenting realization that his notable high school accomplishments were thin and thin, indeed. What stood above all of that was a message that Kurt wished someone had offered him in his earlier years.  
  
He just wasn’t sure if the audience included anyone who most needed to hear it.  
  
His heart pounded when Principal Figgins called out his name. So much so that he felt the air practically punching out of his lungs, leaving him faint and light-headed as he tugged off the unicorn mane he’d carefully situated in his hair, then skipped over the empty expanse of the auditorium floor. There was a smattering of applause, but it died out quickly, long before the critical mass required to keep the momentum going. That was okay. It was expected.  
  
“Hi, my name is Kurt Hummel, and today I hope you’ll consider me for the position of class president.”  
  
Silence.  
  
“But more than that, I hope you’ll consider what I have to say in the five minutes I’ve been given here in front of all of you,” Kurt went on, straightening his shoulders and tugging the mic off of the stand, stepping closer to the sea of faces. “Because there’s an epidemic sweeping through this school. Actually, it’s an epidemic sweeping through schools across the nation, possibly even into the professional workplace, and even throughout the entirety of the human race.”  
  
In the distance, he heard a whisper from Brittany. “Is he talking about the zombie apocalypse?”  
  
Only bolstered further, Kurt took a deep breath and dropped the notecards he’d carefully prepared. He’d forgotten the words already. He only knew that there were a few flashing across his mind, unbidden — but the thing about speaking to an audience was that one could never know what needed to be said until one was standing directly in front of the crowd. Gauging their expressions.  
  
“Bullying. It’s nothing that we haven’t heard about before. Battles between students practically start on the playground, or even earlier than that. But what starts as a simple battle over who gets to use the swings turns far more insidious by the time we enter our high school halls. Here, there are no toys to bicker over, so instead we point fingers. We fight for the right of acceptance. And we’re so eager to find it for ourselves that we’ll do anything to stay afloat, even if that means stepping on other people.”  
  
He glanced around, and all that he took in was the color of each pair of eyes he held contact with. The room was startlingly quiet still, and the lack of sound thrummed through Kurt’s skin, his hair standing on end. He licked his lips.   
  
“Some of you may remember an assembly from a couple of years ago. Those of you who don’t, I ask you now. How many of you have ever felt fat? How many of you have ever felt… ugly? Weak? How many of you struggle so often in your classes that you just stop trying? How many of you are ever afraid that your friends might suddenly decide that they don’t care about you anymore?” While no one raised their hands just yet, Kurt could see the uncomfortable shift of bodies, certain gazes unable to hold themselves up as he glanced their way, and that was how he knew. People understood, even if they claimed not to. “How many of you have worried about pimples, a bad hair day, who you get paired up with in chemistry class?  _Everyone_  worries about something, and there’s no one here who thinks of themselves as perfect, because among so many of us, we’re our own worst critics. Riddled with insecurities.”  
  
He shrugged with a light grin. “We’re teenagers.”  
  
Glancing down at his feet, Kurt nudged himself forward one more step, pacing back and forth along the line of the bleachers. “But where some of us worry about being judged by how much we can bench press or whether or not we’re wearing the latest fashions, the life of someone who’s bullied is different. When we walk through the halls, we fear being shoved against the lockers. We fear being  _bruised_. We fear our classmates targeting us in the gym, where a dozen people can all throw dodgeballs our way and the teacher won’t even bat an eye. And more than that, we fear the words being thrown our way, words telling us to hurt ourselves, to disappear, that no one wants us around. Because worse than a few scrapes is the day we start to _believe_  all of that. When you’re bullied, you start to fear for your life — physically, mentally, emotionally. And that’s unacceptable. These halls are supposed to be safe, a place for us to learn and to make friends. Not a place where we’re forced to question our very identities.  
  
“So I promise you this. If elected class president, I will do everything in my power to stop bullying. It won’t be an easy path, and I may not succeed. It starts with education, with making everyone here aware of what goes on in these halls and the consequences that it has. But president or not, I promise you that within these halls is at least one person who will listen to your problems, who will  _understand_ , and who won’t judge.”  
  
Kurt glanced around, feeling his throat grow tight as he smiled. “Vote Hummel for class president.”  
  
Across the auditorium and through the applause, the double doors to the gym slammed shut.

* * *

_November 16th, 2011  
  
_ Seated primly in the driver’s seat, there was a steady clack of plastic as Kurt opened and closed his CD case, catching a glimpse of scrawled blue handwriting inside. Occasionally, a car would zoom ahead to the side, but overall the neighborhood was quiet, sleepy, down to the shutters which lined along next to winking panes of glass. Kurt had been waiting for about an hour, cell phone carefully stuck to its holder next to the windshield in the event that his father might worry, but Kurt showed no hint of impatience.  
  
The fight was one he’d been fighting for months, after all. Years, if one wanted to consider his struggle with self. He bit down on his lower lip as he closed the case for the last time, letting it bump against his palm as he stared down the street. One of the perks to having the head of the AV club as his campaign manager was the fact that no effort went unrecorded. Undoubtedly useful for the day that Bravo decided to run a documentary on the life of one Kurt Hummel, big Broadway star.  
  
Maybe.  
  
More importantly, there was a certain pair of eyes he needed to have seen the speech. Because in the wake of all of the accusations Blaine had lobbed his way, and in the wake of the other boy’s reticence, Kurt still knew what the rest of the school probably didn’t. A secret told through a phone call and sealed with a kiss.  
  
He startled when a familiar crop of dark brown hair brushed by his window with hardly a sound. Scrambling, Kurt yelped as the CD case started to slip off his lap, slamming down on the plastic. With a stumble, Kurt climbed out of the front seat, making sure to tap the lock button on his keys until he heard the telltale pair of beeps through the slam of his shoes on the pavement.  
  
“Blaine!  _Blaine_ ,” Kurt called, quickly catching up with Blaine’s measured pace. “I was hoping that I’d catch you, I — would you  _slow down_  for a second?” He dropped a hand down on Blaine’s shoulder, drawing him to a stop.  
  
“What now?” Blaine asked, sighing heavily and pivoting until he slipped out from under Kurt’s grasp, taking a few steps back until they reached the front steps.  
  
Frowning at Blaine’s tone, Kurt huffed in indignation and quickly slipped between Blaine and the front door. “Would it really hurt you so much to take, to take at most five minutes out of your day while in the privacy of your neighborhood,  _away_  from prying eyes?” Kurt’s jaw tensed. “I have been out of your hair for a good few weeks and I  _don’t_  plan on getting tangled up in it all over again, but if I remember correctly,  _you_  were the one who kissed me and so the least you could do is pay attention to what I have to say for five minutes. Two, actually, if you weren’t being so difficult.”  
  
“I think you have about three and a half minutes left, then,” Blaine replied, raising a brow.  
  
Staring, Kurt blinked before huffing a slight laugh, hanging his head and barely catching a glimpse of his upturned lips.  
  
“All I wanted to do was make sure that you saw this.” Kurt raised the disc case. “A recording of the student body elections. And if my speech completely bores you — which, by the way, would mean that you have  _terrible_  taste, because it is an absolutely scintillating piece — then you’ll at least have Brittany Pierce’s state of the world in five minutes and Rick the Stick’s… whatever he was doing.”  
  
“I was at the assembly.”  
  
Pausing, Kurt gaped for a second. “Really? I didn’t, I didn’t see you—”  
  
“I left early,” said Blaine. “And stood next to the exit the entire time. Was curious to see what your platform was.”  
  
“What did you think?”  
  
Blaine’s gaze skirted to the side. “I hope that wasn’t completely intended for me.”  
  
Gazing down at his hands, Kurt’s cheeks were brushed over with pink. He pulled his lower lip between his teeth, shoulders tense as he brushed a palm up the opposite arm, still holding fast to the CD. “I, um. I might’ve called your grandmother—” He raised a conceding hand as Blaine glanced up, eyes wide. “—and please, before you go completely off the rails at me for that breach of privacy, just… I know, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, but I  _did_  talk to her. And she told me what you were doing these past few summers. With way too many words, of course, but.”  
  
“You should leave,” Blaine whispered, brows knit as he shook his head, turning towards the door.  
  
“No, Blaine, please — I don’t know how to talk to you about this. I don’t even know where to start. But what you went through is  _wrong_ , and you need to talk to someone about it, and more than that you need to realize that there are people who will accept you for exactly who you are and want to be. Even if you don’t.”  
  
Blaine bit down harder on his lower lip, hesitating for a second before shaking his head again. “I can’t talk about this right now.”  
  
“That’s fine. I… I know I’ve overstayed my welcome. But I know what happened. And I’m still here if you ever feel like talking.”  
  
Their gazes met briefly, then Blaine pushed past Kurt’s shoulder, slipping into the house and shutting the door quietly behind him. 

* * *

_December 13th, 2023_   
  
“Another.  _Please?_ ”  
  
“ _Okay_ , okay, fine. But only  _one_  more, you hear?”  
   
Sighing contentedly, he leaned into the kiss, licking along the line of plush lips as two hands clasped against the pillow, the covers rucking under his heels as he lifted his hips to press flush against the other. Skin against skin, finding warmth in each other.  
  
“That was a bad idea, wasn’t it?”  
  
“ _Extraordinarily_  bad.”  
  
“I said only one more kiss.”  
  
“But you want another one, don’t you?”  
  
Two pairs of legs tangled and the sheets rustled as the bodies rolled over, lips meeting sweet and wet as hands clasped more tightly still. He ran his hands through the other’s hair, fine strands smooth against the pads of his fingers, then traced along the delicate curve of a cheek.  
  
“You are so beautiful—”  
  
Inches away, a monitor crackled, and a cry sounded over the speaker. The two sighed in unison.  
  
“That’ll be Hannah.”  


* * *

_November 22nd, 2011_  
  
With elections a mere week away, Kurt’s mind was on anything but glee club as the members filed in and started chattering away in the few minutes they had before Mr. Schuester’s arrival. Even though the other members had rightfully pointed out that there was very little Kurt could do in the final hour of reckoning, it didn’t stop Kurt from regularly poring over the recording of his speech. And with every repetition, he became further and further convinced of his general inability to distill his thoughts and passions into a form easily consumable by the general high school populace.   
  
Lauren had agreed.   
  
“If you lose the election, it’s all on you, hon,” she had sighed, shrugging her shoulders and patting Kurt squarely on the back. “I did my best to help out, but I can’t be held accountable if you can’t keep to the speech. Brevity is key, my friend. Most people probably tuned out after the first minute. I know I did.”   
  
And try though she may have to assure him that the message was a good one — Kurt assumed she was being sincere for the way she didn’t crack a joke directly after — the poor delivery was still a factor that Kurt took to heart. Most likely, Brittany would win the election. Still, he held onto hope.   
  
Meanwhile, Rachel had taken their friendship to a whole other level once convinced that it’d finally been rekindled. Whereas before, the whole of her efforts had been aimed towards demonstrating week after week her ability to hit all the high notes necessary to land them Nationals, for the past week, she’d been constantly tugging on Kurt’s sleeve for duets, pitting Garland with Streisand as often as she could. Truth be told, the whole thing was a bit tiring, even if Kurt appreciated her effort. There was only so much Rachel he could take, however, and so that day, he breezed right past the rest of the glee club members and took to his usual chair in the back of the room, standing atop to peer across the school courtyard and into the classroom across the way.   
  
It took Rachel exactly two minutes to start tugging on Kurt’s sleeve. He sighed.   
  
“Rach, c’mon, just give me a second,” he said, shaking his head, even though he didn’t pull his arm away just yet. “French class was absolute  _murder_  today. They paired me up with Jake again, and he’s at  _best_  only half a step above Azimio. Trust me.”   
  
The tugging persisted. “Kurt, seriously, I think you’ll want to see this—”   
  
“What is it? Another duet? Because yes, fine, I will sing what you want—”   
  
“— _Kurt_ —”   
  
“Kurt, can you take a seat, please?” Mr. Schuester’s voice sounded from across the room, and for the second time in about as many minutes, Kurt sighed, raising his free hand to try and ease away the worry lines between his brows. “And the rest of you, quiet down please. I’m very happy to announce that we have a student joining our club today.”   
  
With a slight huff, Rachel turned on her heel and Kurt hopped down from his chair, his gaze aimed down at his hands as Kurt crossed one leg over the other, letting his foot bob impatiently. Maybe coming to practice that day was a mistake.   
  
“Everyone, meet Blaine Anderson, our newest addition to New Directions.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Aversion therapy, verbal abuse, depression. This story covers heavy subject material and tries not to pull punches, so be warned. While there are no graphic descriptions, people with a fear of needles or emetophobia should be cautious going into this chapter.

  
_November 22nd, 2011_   


It was late enough that the sunlight had already started to wane when Kurt stepped out of the school. There were times when the glee club seemed to scatter as soon as their hours of practice were up, all wandering off in pairs and groups of three, their conversations skirting down the halls and wavering slightly, a subtle echo. With his gaze fixed on his feet, it wasn’t until Kurt was within a few paces of the front door that he noticed the stretching shadow in front of him, his heart skipping a beat once he caught sight of the unmistakable curve of a guitar in front of him.

He didn’t know why Blaine Anderson had chosen to join the club. He didn’t know _why_ , and didn’t dare presume that he had something to do with the choice. With a stuttered breath, Kurt broke away to the side, hands shoved deep into his pockets and clenching into fists, his jaw tensing. It wasn’t fear that kept him wound, but confusion. Maybe, in time, he’d be strong enough to tear those walls down.

But that didn’t make it the right thing to do.

By the time he reached the stairs and metal grate by the side of the school, his chest no longer felt quite so tight, but Kurt dug his fingers into the fabric regardless. He crouched down to a seat, his bag scraping lightly against concrete and eyes squinting against the reflection of sunlight on metal.

“Hey, you,” a voice said softly from behind, and Kurt caught a glimpse of violet falling into place beside him.

“Rachel,” he greeted with a raise of his chin, pulling his lower lip in and finding himself inexplicably unable to meet her gaze. “I thought you would’ve left with Finn.”

“Normally, I would have, but I kind of told him to go on without me. So… I hope you’re able to give me a ride, since my dads are still at work and I’m not really wearing long distance appropriate footwear.”

Her voice was hushed, if not necessarily any softer than usual, and it warmed something in Kurt’s chest as he smiled faintly, finally glancing her way. He nodded minutely. “Sure. Finn being home early means that my dad’ll probably rope him into helping out at the shop, anyway.”

She nodded back, blinking through a sheepish smile and hooking her hands on the edge of the top stair, bracing her weight as the both of them turned to gaze down the stairs. “Your speech was really great, you know. At the student body elections,” she remarked, a shoulder pulling up in slight discomfort. “I was really moved by how much you were willing to stand up on the behalf of the bullied, and I can’t think of anyone better suited to be our president. You should know that you have my vote.”

The elections were so far buried in the back of Kurt’s mind that he wondered what it meant; he couldn’t seem to bring himself to care just yet, stomach twisting whenever he shifted his weight. He only vaguely remembered listening to Rachel as she threw her support behind him at the last minute, conceding her spot on the ballot and ushering that their fellow students vote for him. What he recalled with greater detail were the faces of the students on the bleachers, faces of people he’d hardly ever spoken to twice over the years, but with one person noticeably absent. Or so he’d thought.

It wasn’t a detail that particularly mattered, but not knowing where Blaine had stood to watch still dug under Kurt’s skin.

“I just wanted to make a difference,” admitted Kurt. “It doesn’t really matter to me who wins, I just thought that it might mean something to have a student in charge who was actually willing to _listen_ instead of spending their entire term lobbying for soda can machines or choosing a theme for prom.”

“And it will,” insisted Rachel as she laid a hand on his elbow. “Kurt, what you said there, it _resonated_ with people. I mean, we all know half of that audience was there to see if Brittany was really going to go topless at the end of her speech, but when you were talking, they were all quiet. I think more teens can understand what you’re getting at than the adults even realize.”

Kurt held silent, then shifted, raising his arm to rest it over a knee.

“Are you going to tell me what’s really bothering you?”

Silence.

“Is it Blaine?”

Lips parting, Kurt stared in Rachel’s direction before pressing his mouth shut, raising his fingers to massage against his temple, fighting off the building headache. “I… I don’t know why he joined, Rachel,” he said, drawing in a shaky breath as he rested a hand on top of hers, nearly laughing at how it almost felt as though she was the one trembling, though consciously, he knew that couldn’t be the case. “I didn’t expect him to, I wouldn’t even have _recommended_ it to him, not with the way he’s been around me, and wait until Quinn hears, she’ll be _furious_ with me.”

“…okay, I don’t know what’s going on with Quinn, partially because she refuses to return _any_ of my calls,” muttered Rachel, quickly shaking her head and shifting closer with a squeeze of his hand. “Never mind. Kurt, as far as I can tell, he’s just one of those hipster guys who acts like he’s above everyone else and won’t talk to anyone except for the similarly hipster blonde chick gone punk goth. Is he really worth all of this? I miss you being _you_ in the choir room. I feel like I’m the only one who speaks up anymore; even Santana has her own thing going on these days. We’re not a _team_.”

“He kissed me.”

“…what?”

“He _kissed_ me.”

He felt Rachel’s hand go stiff on his arm. “Wait, but isn’t he dating… Quinn?”

“Yeah,” Kurt nodded, emphatic in his frustration. “They may never say as much, but they’re definitely checking off every box in the book.”

Catching a flash of light directly in his eyes, Kurt winced, glaring up in the direction of the sun. But on some level, he was almost grateful to be able to blame something else for the burning sensation at the corners of his eyes.

“That’s horrible. Have you told Quinn?”

Kurt tugged his hand away, drawing both to his knees and working his thumb against his opposite palm, sweeping about in large circles. “I’m pretty sure she knows,” he confessed. “I think she’s helping him hide it.”

He felt her question lingering in the air, but cut it off with a curt shake of his head.

“You can’t tell anyone, Rach. You understand, right? You _have_ to understand — to be outed before you’re ready… even if you think everyone already knows, it’s not the same.” A sigh fell from his lips. His brow was knit so tightly that it ached, while his hands wouldn’t stop _shaking_.

“Kurt, of _course_ —”

“No,” he breathed, shaking his head again, air blown out between his teeth. “No, don’t tell me how obvious it is, because you’re not in my position. Not where this is concerned. You don’t know how tempted I’ve been to just pull Blaine out into the open and force him to be _proud_ of who he is. I want to tell him that it’s so much better, it gets _so_ much better. It’s not wrong to want for someone to come out, and I get the temptation; I know people have good intentions. So don’t tell me it’s obvious. Just. _Trust_ me.”

She nodded minutely, and he almost laughed, thinking of how they might have looked like bobble-head dolls to anyone else. And it was a relief to have her agree.

“You can’t tell anyone,” he reiterated. “But... I made a call to his grandmother. I know that he stays with her every summer, and I wondered about that, because she lives all the way out there in California, and it’s a blue state, and I thought, maybe he went there to escape. Or, who knows, maybe he figured out his sexuality while he was there.”

“And?”

He felt a surge of hatred for the deafening silence around them.

“She was really kind to me when we started talking. Asked what Blaine had been up to, if he was involved in any sports, and I told her that I didn’t know much, especially not about sports. But she thanked me anyway, said I was such a sweet girl to be so welcoming of a new student, and.” Kurt grimaced; it was almost a smile. “I told her, no, I know my voice sounds pretty feminine, but I’m actually a, a _guy_ , and it was like her whole demeanor changed. Like suddenly, she _heard_ the gay coming through the phone, and God forbid it gets anywhere near her grandson.”

Limbs folded, crossed, as Kurt sunk further back on the step.

“…Kurt, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Rachel, I’m used to it. It wasn’t the first time someone spoke to me like that, and it wasn’t even the first that _day_.” His fingers raked through his hair, strands hardened by product. “I feel like every queer kid has at least one moment where they’re afraid that their family will reject them.

“But I never actually _knew_ that reality.”

* * *

_November 23rd, 2011_

She stood in the doorway, hot pink peeking out from underneath a smoky gray knit cap, but the lurid brush of gloss did nothing to hide the quickly fading color of her lips as the wind blew about her. Still, she kept her arms carefully pinned to her sides, as though to give herself a broader appearance, quickly pulling her shoulders back as the door opened.

“Quinn.”

It was enough of an invitation as her hand quickly clutched at faded blue fabric, tugging and then pushing the man inside, her free arm sweeping to slam the front door shut.

“Tell me why.”

“It’d help if I knew what you were talking about—”

She laughed, eyes wide before she pressed the heels of both hands against his shoulders and shoved again, somehow with less strength than the first, fingers tightening into fists that dug against her palms. “Oh, don’t pretend to be a fool, Blaine Anderson, don’t pretend in front of _me_ ,” she exclaimed, shaking her head quickly enough for her hair to fall free of the cap, lightly framing her face. “Tell me why you joined the glee club. I _told_ you not to join.”

He fell silent long enough for her to fool herself into believing that he was hiding his answer.

“You’re leaving me, aren’t you? Which is _fine_ ; everyone does,” she said, huffing a breath. “But at least you could have been decent enough to _warn_ me ahead of time, leave me with _some_ shred of dignity before throwing yourself towards social _suicide_ —”

Reaching out suddenly, he carefully turned both of their bodies around, coaxing her back until shoulder blades met with the wall. Although tremulous at first, she found herself catching her breath, and only afterwards did she notice how much her lungs screamed for air.

“You’re not upset about me,” he murmured, voice wet as he attempted to hold his hands steady. “I _know_ you’re not upset about me, so please. I’m not going anywhere. Breathe.”

Her shoulders shook, lips stretched thin as she ducked her face away, lashes obscuring her view.

“Is this about Beth?”

So sudden that she appeared in little more than a blur, the young woman hooked her arms around the man, clutching at his shirt as it quickly bloomed warm underneath her eyes, streaks of gray lining the blue. She heaved, but took in no air, lungs burning as she tried to shake into the steady calm of his chest, claim some of that peace back for herself, no longer willingly offered.

“I could have gone my whole life without seeing her. Just… _knowing_ that she was living a better life than I could ever offer, I know, I _know_ that I’m not prepared to be a mother, but I have to see her _mom_ at school every day and be told that she _wants_ me in Beth’s life.” She gasped, balance wavering, and she felt her skin thrum against the tight embrace of warm arms around her. “Why can’t she leave me _alone?_ ”

They stood for a while longer, him with his eyes closed, and her murmuring against his shoulder in a quiet monotone, senseless save for the thought: _I’m not broken. I’m not broken._

“Shelby won’t let me see her tomorrow.” Her voice was once again the soft, rough tone that he’d grown used to, and his hold loosened slightly as he pressed a hush to her temple, hand smoothing over the small of her back.

* * *

_July 3rd, 2010_

“So, Mister Blaine Anderson, is it?”

She was like a bird of paradise flitting through otherwise muted surroundings, reds and oranges clashing on the fabric of her dress, which was unusual compared to the other employees in the facility. If the institution thought that keeping a few staff members out of uniform helped them to better blend in with their surroundings, then they were mistaken; the boy was always able to spot these individuals as soon as they stepped into the room, because they simply didn’t fit. Like puzzle pieces that wouldn’t snap into place, no matter how many edges one tried.

The message was simple: if quiet coaxing didn’t work, then they would take stronger measures to teach a lesson.

He stared and gave no reply.

“My, we’re grumpy today,” she remarked, smiling broadly as she edged into the room, two thin boxes in hand. The first was placed atop the DVD player opposite where the boy sat, and the other she opened to reveal a few items — a small bag of cotton balls, rubbing alcohol, a strip of elastic, latex gloves, and a carefully sealed syringe with the bottle of medicine present just below the wax wrapper. The gloves were bright purple, the kind that reminded one of Easter gatherings and painted eggs.

On cue, the boy rolled up his sleeve, tugging harshly even as the fabric burned against his shoulder.

“Just remember,” the woman said, her voice quieter somehow, “that this is all for your own good. And you’ve made a great deal of progress since you first arrived. Doctor Nicolosi is _very_ interested in your case. We get so many people here who lose sight of the goal, and of course it’s difficult staying here, far away from friends and family…”

Her voice faded into a dull brightness as he watched her clean a small patch of skin on his arm, the only change being the slight chill which ran through it, hair standing on end.

“Just a pinch, now… there. Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

With his neck rested against the back of the couch, the boy sunk into the cushions and rolled his sleeve back down, reaching for a remote with his good arm. He glanced up in time to watch the woman slide a disc into the player and take a few steps back, the tap tap _tap_ of her heels uneven, like a nervous colt. She cleared her throat.

“Yes, well,” she laughed, scrambling to gather the medical supplies, its contents dumped into a sealable bag. “You’ll just start the video by yourself, won’t you? Lots of other pa — people to see, you know.”

Holding his gaze firm, the boy held out the remote and pressed play. The door shut just in time for the images to flicker onto the screen, a couple pixels discolored, showing magenta rather than red.

He sighed, leaning forward to tug a plastic tub out from under the coffee table, wedging it neatly between his arms and his lap, elbows resting on the narrow sides.

On the screen flashed a picture of tangled limbs, of unshaven skin, of the slotting of lips that seemed, even in their static state, impossibly soft to the touch. Of fingers prying against muscle, drawn shadows intersecting with the spine, a gasp seen rather than heard.

He raised a hand to his lips, pressing against the full lower curve.

He wondered.

* * *

_November 24th, 2011_

As they waited by the door, Quinn swept her fingers through her hair, strands light and teasing as they clung against the side of her neck. Her cheeks twitched as she stood, but a hand pressed to the small of her back kept the rest of her body still and poised.

“You didn’t have to come,” she said, not bothering to turn around. The hand on her back offered a gentle pat.

“Neither did you.”

“I hardly recognized you with that hair. It makes you look like you’ve lost a couple of inches.”

“Quinn.”

They quieted at the sound of approaching footsteps, muffled behind the heavy wooden door. Quinn blinked owlishly as the door swung open and flooded the front steps with light, her lips parting at the sight of a little girl propped on a hip, thumb stubbornly held between her lips in spite of her mother’s quick attempts to tug at her sleeve. Blonde hair curled over her head in delicate wisps, contrasting sharply with her mother’s tresses of dark brown, but both of them were dressed in matching dresses of black and gold.

“Quinn,” she greeted haltingly, arms wrapping tight and hiking her child higher. “I… wasn’t expecting you; did I miss your call? I’m sorry, I’ve been cooking all day and the house is a _mess_.”

With a breath, Quinn shook her head, forcing her gaze up. “I didn’t call, Ms. Corcoran. I didn’t call, because I knew that if I did, you would probably turn me down again before hearing me out.” Her lips drew thin. “Look, I know that you care about Beth’s well-being. So do I. And I know that you’re her mother, but that doesn’t mean that you get to come back here and dangle her in front of me because you’re afraid of doing this alone.”

Shelby quickly glanced beyond the pair, checking for anyone in the vicinity.

The hand fell away from behind Quinn.

“I cleaned up. Stopped smoking, dyed my hair blonde again, and used plenty of hand sanitizer. I didn’t clean up for you, I cleaned up for Beth,” she continued, voice steady. “Because that’s what you said it’d take for me to get to see her, and I want to see the baby that I gave birth to. I know Puck did. Besides, you _know_ that she’s not going to remember today anyway, she’s too young. So please don’t use her as an excuse, otherwise that’s something _you’ll_ have to bear on your own conscience.”

“Hey!”

All four gazes turned as a fifth person joined the crowd, his boots crunching through snow as he staggered up the steps, a knit cap pulled far down over his ears. He glanced from one person to another, wide-eyed, before his eyes stopped on the brunette, as though waiting for an explanation.

“Shelby, what’s going on?”

“You’re early, Noah.”

He scratched at his hat. “Yeah, uh… I wasn’t really doing anything, anyway, so I thought I’d stop by earlier and watch over Beth while you made us dinner.” Catching Quinn’s gaze, he flinched. “But I guess you already found Quinn for that. A little heads-up would’ve been nice.”

With her face still pale, Shelby shook her head. “I didn’t invite her here, but… Quinn, come in. Noah, you too.” Holding Beth closer to her chest, Shelby turned back inside, the click of her heels growing quiet with the distance. “And one of you, close the door, please.”

Hands gripping each other tightly as she held them carefully in front of her, Quinn edged towards the doorway, staring down with trepidation at the welcome mat, keeping off of its pink-hued letters. “Puck,” she finally said, brows raising in spite of her fixed gaze. “I should have known you’d be here.”

“Yeah, well I had no idea _you_ were coming. Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve helped talk to her for you.” He reached out to grip her shoulder, but Quinn pulled quickly away, backing into the house and pausing a couple of steps in.

“Or you could have _offered_ ,” she accused, voice hushed.

“I didn’t see what the big deal was,” he retorted, shoving his hands back into his pockets, brows knit. “So she told you to straighten up a little — she told me to do the same thing. I had to keep my grades up and everything; I’ve been trying so hard at school.”

“It’s not the same thing, Puck, and if you ever listened—”

“—you were going _crazy_ —”

“— _yes_ , yes! I was going crazy! But that’s when we need people the _most_ , Noah.” Her lip trembled, and the movement soon spread to her shoulders, coat rustling as she brought her arms up to wrap around herself.

In the distance, they heard a peal of high-pitched laughter.

“Quinn, I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

Rubbing at his neck, Puck shook his head vigorously, taking a step forward and holding out both arms placatingly, resting their weight against the crook of her elbows. “Let’s head inside,” he suggested, shifting his palms to her sides and coaxing her around, then casting a quick look over his shoulder.

“That other guy’s gone. Who was he, anyway?”

“Just a friend.”

* * *

_November 29th, 2011, 3:47 PM_  
(To be read while listening to James Vincent McMorrow’s song, “[ **If I Had A Boat**](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dv7WllrZOcI).”)

“And Blaine has prepared his first song for us this afternoon,” Will declared, clapping his hands together with a grin before waving towards the cleared space, inviting Blaine to stand in front of the club. From the side, Brad, the pianist, looked over expectantly, hands neatly folded on his lap.

Meeting his gaze, Blaine shook his head minutely, tugging on the strap of his guitar and slinging it over his shoulder. His hand closed around the back of his seat, lifting it as he took a few paces out, then set it upright in the middle of the room.

“Um, Blaine, we have stools that you can use if you prefer…”

Will fell quiet as Blaine sat down, the curve of his guitar resting neatly atop his thigh and his complexion lighter in contrast to its brightly painted surface, red chipped off in a couple of spots. Without introduction, Blaine began to strum a few chords, glancing up and singularly meeting each of the gazes in the room — and a pair were green, and a pair were blue — before stopping, letting the room fall into silence.

“Golden, golden, golden river run to the east and drop beneath the sun. And as the moon lies low and overhead, we're lost.”

He started playing again, one upbeat for every two down, his back hunched over the guitar, shielding it as the music slipped through.

“Burn slow, burning up the back wall,” he murmured, voice a hush. “Long roads, where the city meets the sky. Most days, most days stay the sole same.”

His gaze raised to the ceiling.

“Please stay, for this fear, it will not die.”

Releasing the strings, he let the chords extend, fading but never stopping for the sound of his voice.

“And if I had a boat, I would sail to you, hold you in my arms, ask you to be true. Once I had a dream, it died long before; now I'm pointed north, hoping for the shore.”

His chin dropped, and he struck the strings, the guitar pick falling with a clatter to the ground as he drew his nails down, the vibrations passing through his skin.

“Down low, down amongst the thorn rows, weeds grow through the lilies and the vine. Birds play, try to find their own way; soft clay on your feet and under mine.”

Air drew in sharply through his teeth.

“If I had a boat, I would sail to you, hold you in my arms, ask you to be true. Once I had a dream, it died long before; now I'm pointed north, hoping for the shore.”

He plucked at a pair of strings, one after the other, his fingers aching with the effort as he shifted from one chord to another, a progression as much a rise and fall as the tides.

“Spitting at the sea. Heaving at the breeze.”

Change.

“Sheets are billowing. Breaking of the day.”

Again.

“Sea is not my friend, and everyone conspires.”

Repeat.

“Still I choose to swim, slip beneath the tide.”

His fingers plucked out the melody he couldn’t find, and his voice was hoarse.

“Once I had a dream, once I had a hope; that was yesterday, not so long ago.”

Raising in volume, courage woven through. Courage, or some approximation.

“This is not the end, this is just the world,” he pleaded, “Such a foolish thing, such an honest girl.”

His hand fell against his knee, resting there.

“If I had a boat, I would sail to you, hold you in my arms, ask you to be true. Once I had a dream, it died long before.”

That indistinct point between his eyes.

“Now I'm pointed north, hoping for the shore.”

* * *

_November 29th, 2011, 2:32 PM_

In the summer, running along the track would kick up dust behind one’s heels; on occasion, Kurt enjoyed imagining that it was an indication of his speed, the only motivator to be found when gym class so often involved jeers, taunts, and accidental shoves from jocks in the class. With winter nearing, the dirt stayed put under his shoes, but Kurt felt himself racing faster than he could ever recall, the ground hard and every step a shock against his heels. He knew he was breathing; he could feel the air cold in his lungs.

It still didn’t feel like enough.

He slowed down as soon as the bleachers were within arm’s reach, cool metal beneath his palm as he stopped to gasp for breath, eyes roving. The city hadn’t enjoyed its first snow yet, and the sky above him was stretched clear and blue, not a cloud to be seen.

It was a wisp of breath rising in the cold that drew his attention.

Coughing into the crook of his elbow, Kurt tried to rub the chill in his nose away as he let his shoes drag briefly on the ground, announcing his presence.

A pair of amber eyes glanced up from where Blaine was seated on a ledge, guitar on his lap.

“You should come inside; you’ll freeze out here,” Kurt breathed, frowning as he noticed the angry red of Blaine’s fingers, almost frozen where they laid on top of his guitar strings.

“I’ll be there for practice.”

All that confidence swept out from under him, but there was just enough momentum left to swing on, so Kurt stepped forward, close enough that he could have reached out, physically. Of course, those were never the walls to stop him, when it came to Blaine, and he felt his cheeks flush, wondering idly whether they were any better than Blaine’s hands.

“I won.”

Rearranging the guitar strap on his shoulder and letting the instrument hang heavy against his back, Blaine then stuffed his hands into his pockets, heel grinding against the side of the concrete ledge. Listening, Kurt hoped.

“I _won_ the election, I’m student body president,” he continued, words spilling out, the emotion unbidden. “I’m going to make a _difference_ here, I’m going to talk to Figgins every week and he’ll be _forced_ to listen to me, and I’ll have input at council meetings, a vote when they review school policy — _Blaine_ , are you listening to me?”

Blaine stared with that same unfathomable look, frustratingly even and enough so that Kurt _hated_ it, might have hated _him_ , and so Kurt did the only thing that he could think of: he stepped closer, if only to watch Blaine’s eyes refocus.

And they did.

“You know, it’s fine if you don’t like me. I can’t even figure out if I like _you_. But this is… bigger than that, this is working against discrimination, and fear, and ignorance, and—”

He was distinctly aware of a crowding of space.

The rest of the details, Kurt wouldn’t have remembered if offered the chance. He wouldn’t recall the shift of Blaine’s weight, how it leaned back before it did forward, or the way Blaine’s toes met ground first, all else a soft brush. He didn’t notice the way Blaine’s lips thinned, or the bump of a guitar against the ledge, strings humming out a hollow sound.

Just crowding.

More of a person.

Kurt blinked, and suddenly the rest trickled into place, a desperate grab on either side as he felt Blaine’s fingers tug at his coat, jerking it to the side enough that his messenger bag slipped and thudded against asphalt. He didn’t care, but he thought of its contents, if anything might have broken or torn, because it was easier to wonder about than the dry lips drawn close and the lashes that framed eyes too often vacant. Easier to dwell on than an awakening, but his hands and legs betrayed him, borrowing balance as they found the jagged teeth of Blaine’s coat zipper.

And suddenly, they were kissing, the rough touch of Blaine’s lips contrastingly softer than before. Pliant, searching, desperate but through a veil of reluctance, their ears suddenly met with the sound of each other as Blaine guided Kurt through a turn, the small of his back pressed painfully against the sharp corner of the concrete barrier.

He felt protected; consciously, Kurt knew that he wasn’t.

Seconds turned to minutes, and slowly the seams split. A tremor passed from Blaine’s fingers, and air fell from his lips in an uneven push, until one palm finally dropped to smack against the ledge. Kurt feared drawing back, so his hand brushed up to offer reassurance, pulling back as though burned when he felt a familiar wetness against the pad of his thumb.

“Blaine?”

The name was enough for him to pull away, staggering a couple steps to the side, the second palm meeting concrete and knuckles turning white as Blaine leaned over the barrier, pressing the corner against his stomach, heaving dry over the side.

Kurt’s gaze continued to point forward, fixed on the empty parking lot.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how long it's taken me to update this fic! The extended explanation is **[here](http://ourlivesareweird.tumblr.com/post/51484112860/if-you-dont-read-chaos-theory-skip-past-this)** , but essentially, I decided to finish Ambitions Like Ribbons first, and now I'm back to working on this story. Thank you for your patience!

For weeks, Kurt wasn’t able to escape paperwork. It littered his room, sheets upon sheets of loose-leaf paper strewn across his bed, piled up high on his desk, and carefully packed away in binders which quickly doubled the weight of his messenger bag. Years of watching _The West Wing_ had prepared Kurt somewhat for the idea that politicians had to weather through lots of effort before reaching the payoff, but what he didn’t expect were the heels that dug the deepest into the ground and held strong against change. They didn’t belong to students.

They belonged to _adults_.

No one was more intimately familiar with the fickleness of the high school caste system than the students themselves. Even the most popular of students, those who graced the top of the Cheerios pyramid or the starting players on the football team, knew how easily they could fall from position. All it took was for a nasty rumor to spread and fester, undercutting the strength of one’s social network until their foundation crumbled. The idea that they could protect themselves against that risk was widely welcomed — as long as their names weren’t tied to the project.

The greater problem was presented by the adults, both parents and faculty alike. None of them had the funds, none of them had the time, none of them knew where to direct Kurt in his quest to change school policy. All they could do was refer him to school codes, to bylaws that had been laid in place long before brick and mortar drew the perimeters of the school grounds, and to administrators who went weeks without replying to emails and never had the time to sit down with Kurt, face to face.

Because in the grand scheme of things, the problem was never that one in seven students at school were bullied.

The problem was that six out of seven were fine.

* * *

_December 5th, 2011_

“Oh, please don’t tell me that you’re here to drop another ream of paper at my desk,” groaned Kurt, glancing up at Rachel and immediately starting to rub his temples. Lunch had started ten minutes ago, but Kurt hadn’t moved from his seat in homeroom, dreading the noise and crowding of teens trying to cram too much food and gossip into too little time. He waved in the general direction of his desk, the space occupied by no fewer than four separate piles of forms and articles. “Between class and student council duties, _je suis très occupé_. Not to mention that I still have a few college applications that I’ve yet to hit complete on, and we all know _those_ deadlines like to creep up quickly.”

Smiling sympathetically, Rachel dragged a free chair closer and folded her arms neatly on the desk, pushing papers out of the way. “You’ll want to see this, trust me,” she assured.

Kurt was no stranger to dismissing Rachel Berry in a busy moment, but as the seconds went by, Kurt couldn’t help but notice the constant tick of the clock on the wall. Rachel was being unusually quiet.

Curiosity piqued, Kurt sighed and nudged his work to the side, conceding with a tilt of his head. “Okay, fine. You get ten minutes, at which point I need to run down to the cafeteria and make sure I get _something_ to last me through the day.”

Silently, Rachel placed her shoulder bag on the desk, rifling through and pulling out a thin book. “I know that you told me not to tell anyone about Blaine’s situation—”

Eyes flashing, Kurt sat up straighter, quickly glancing around the room. “Yes I _did_ , and Rachel Berry, if you’re about to tell me that you broke your promise I _swear to god_ —”

Shushing Kurt with a bat at his shoulder, Rachel shook her head quickly, pressing her lips together. “I did break your promise, but not with anyone at the school and _not_ with anyone who would tell. All I did was talk to my dads, but I didn’t even bring up Blaine’s name,” Rachel explained, and although his eyes remained doubtful, Kurt relaxed slightly. “It’s not a bad thing to talk to people who know more about this kind of situation, Kurt. I know we don’t always see eye to eye, but my dads have been through a lot, and I’m sure they understand your situation a lot better than I do.”

Even though his stomach twisted at the idea of letting Blaine’s secret slip to anyone, Kurt had to admit that Rachel had a point. He didn’t bother conceding it verbally, choosing instead to shift on his seat, resting his chin against the palm of his hand as he leaned against his desk. “Not a very high bar,” Kurt pointed out, keeping his expression even as Rachel recoiled slightly in hurt. Avoiding her gaze, he started to glance at Rachel’s book, eyes quickly skimming the title.

_Shame and Attachment Loss: The Practical Work of Reparative Therapy._

He felt a chill trickle down his spine, slow and lingering.

“What the hell is this?”

Rachel’s lips parted, and for a few seconds she said nothing, eventually reaching out to wrap her hand around Kurt’s wrist, as though pinning him there. It only made things worse.

“Kurt, you _have_ to listen and hear me out first. Do you hear me? _Kurt_ ,” Rachel insisted, shaking his arm until Kurt met her gaze again, and he could have sworn that he was seeing red. “I talked to my dads about Blaine going to see his grandmother every summer in California, and I mean, I know that not everyone who lives in a liberal state is bound to be liberal, but it seemed really weird to me how much she shut down when she talked to you on the phone.”

“You’re taking a long time to make your point, Berry.”

“Well my point is that — okay, so both of my dads are pretty well connected and they know plenty of families out in Westerville, including, as it turns out, the Andersons. Patricia Anderson, Blaine’s grandmother, lives about a dozen blocks from the headquarters of NARTH.”

Kurt felt his face drain. He remembered hearing about this group in the news, remembered the fuss that had been raised in the wake of Proposition 8. “The National Association for Research and Therapy of Homosexuality,” he murmured.

Rachel nodded quietly, releasing Kurt’s wrist in order to open the book, wetting her thumb as she flipped through the pages. Occasionally, Kurt caught highlighted lines of text, and as Rachel made her way through the volume, he wanted to tear it away from her hands, rip it into little pieces.

“The group has done a lot of studies around reparative therapy and claims that they can change the sexuality of those who enter their program.” Kurt knew that. “They view sexuality as a lifestyle and believe that environmental factors cause incidence of homosexuality.” Kurt knew that, too. “I looked into some accounts by people who used to be enrolled in the program, and it all sounds awful, but I couldn’t stop reading and that’s how I found this. I know that it’s not real proof, but…”

Closing his eyes, Kurt exhaled slowly before taking the book from Rachel, holding its pages open with shaky hands.

_Most participants in the program began with the intention of breaking away from an unhealthy lifestyle. For those who were admitted at the recommendation of concerned relatives and guardians, an additional hurdle presented itself in convincing them of the need to change. Rather than positioning the message as a need to alter their sense of identity and individuality, more success was found by asking participants to paint a picture of the ideal family. In the same way that an ailing student knows that academic success paves the way for a better quality of life in the long term, those with homosexual tendencies are shown that addressing their perversions will increase the comfort and happiness of both themselves and their loved ones._

_This message proved to be especially resonant with participants coming from stable backgrounds, creating a source of motivation and removing the need for constant supervision. From as early as primary school, a successful framing of the nuclear family made possible a part-time enrollment in reparative therapy, allowing participants to continue normal schooling and reducing the impact to their home lives._

Kurt stopped there, feeling a sudden, sharp pain in his hand. Without realizing, he’d been biting down against his knuckles while reading.

“I’m so sorry, Kurt.”

Gaze flickering up, Kurt shook his head minutely. “Would you please give me a moment to myself, Rachel?”

She rose to her feet quickly, and the clock continued to tick in the distance, and somehow in the dim light, Rachel Berry looked smaller to Kurt than she ever had before. Not until she reached the door did Rachel pause, hand on the frame as she watched Kurt over her shoulder.

“Hey, Rachel. Is this your book?” Kurt asked.

“No. It’s a library copy.”

He nodded tersely. As Rachel slipped out of the room, Kurt bit down on his index finger, the pressure hard enough to leave pins and needles in its wake. His heart pounded in his ears, loud and distracting, never in time with the passing seconds, and Kurt subconsciously followed the warring beats until he realized the book was still open in his hands, spine wrinkled under the wide angle.

Without hesitation, Kurt flung it across the room, breaking into a sob as he watched it clatter to the ground.

* * *

_December 6th, 2011_

The nice thing about being at Dalton had been that no one ever asked questions. Students were wrapped up in crimson and navy blue, assigned a wide array of required courses spaced out over four years, slept in dorms of regulated size — a one-size-fits-all identity, fair and just.

And safe.

He could have stayed until graduation had it not been for the weekends spent at home, when the ties were undone and the walls forced down. Blaine’s parents had observed changes where his friends had only seen stress. They had noticed the hunch of his shoulders, normally masked underneath a firm pair of pads, and they had tried to address it in the little ways, the ones distanced and perhaps intended to give him space to breathe. His mother had slipped more food onto his plate, his father had invited him to the garage to work on cars, and when that had failed, they brought him to church, where an unyielding bench and soft prayers still couldn’t wrap Blaine tightly enough in comfort and security.

They had developed questions to which Blaine had no answer, and so he had left.

At McKinley, everyone asked questions. They asked them in the prying gazes which followed Blaine as he walked down the hall, and in the whispers which spread through the school like smoke, a nuisance to which he adapted and learned to ignore. For a while, they had died down while Blaine kept in Quinn’s company, but recently, Blaine felt them buzzing again, constantly rising like the evening tide.

Most of the time, he could close his eyes and ignore them until the bell rang at the end of the day.

“Hey, Chia pet. You got a minute?”

But maybe that was drawing toward its inevitable end.

* * *

The Lima Bean was bustling that afternoon, roaring with the empty noise of people single-mindedly making their way through the day, not one of them stopping long enough for faces to imprint as anything but a blur in their memory. Blaine’s eyes lingered on the progress of Santana’s nails, painted a dangerous red and tracing along the rim of her coffee cup.

“I’m not going to bite, you know,” she said, and even without looking, Blaine could feel her gaze resting on him. “You could stand to take a breath or two.”

“So could you,” he replied, watching as her fingers tightened around the cup.

She cleared her throat then, and Blaine finally glanced up, eyes resting on the equally bright red of her lipstick, liner smooth along the contour of her mouth. “Look, I don’t usually do this,” Santana began, her nails soon drumming a sharp pattern against their table. “But I’ve gotten lucky enough lately that I figure I should probably pass it forward.”

Blaine raised a brow. “You aren’t trying to recruit me for the Trouble Tones, are you?”

“Although your lashes are thick enough to put Maybelline to shame, I can assure you that your equipment isn’t right for the job,” Santana replied wryly, exhaling deeply as she rested a cheek against her palm, staring evenly across the table. “Blaine, I know.”

A beat. “Know what, exactly?”

As Santana rolled her eyes, Blaine felt his chest constrict. “I know that you’ve got the hots for Hummel, and I also know that you’re no more interested in Quinn Fabray than I’d be interested in anything that a guy’s got going on between his legs.”

Heat spread across Blaine’s cheeks, licking furiously underneath his skin; his shoulders hunched, sloping down under the familiar weight of humiliation. His chair jerked back, legs scraping against the floor, coffee slopping over the rim of his mug. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Blaine hissed, eyes overly wide, and his heart kept pounding, _pounding_. “I think we’re done here.”

With a commanding gaze, Santana simply held out an arm, blocking Blaine’s path. “Blaine, _relax_ ,” she murmured, tilting her chin down. “There are a lot of things in the world you should be more concerned about than pinging my gaydar. So sit down, and let’s talk before you draw everyone’s attention by making a big scene.”

Eyes darting up and surveying the area, Blaine caught just enough gazes turned their way to be convinced, easing himself back down onto his chair. Even as he took deep breaths, his cheeks refused to cool down, his eyes wouldn’t stop burning, and his skin still felt stretched too tight. There were too many questions that he wanted to ask, starting with how she found out, _when_ she realized, because that wasn’t the first time Blaine felt his mask peeling and cracks widening, but it _was_ the first time that someone else brought it to his attention.

And he couldn’t — he couldn’t let it happen again.

But he didn’t know what to ask first.

“God, Blaine, I’m not your enemy,” Santana said, her words softer, expression stunned. “I just wanted you to know that you’re not alone in this rotten excuse for a town, okay? And that Lady Hummel’s not the only person you can talk to about this.”

Blaine swallowed thickly, and across the table, he saw Santana’s shoulders relax.

“Besides, if you’re worried about being confused, I’ve been there a hell of a lot more than he has.”

* * *

_December 8th, 2011_

“What kind of person am I if I couldn’t even tell when my best friend needed help?”

Kurt was being unreasonable. He felt it, judgment reflected back at him in the mirror, staring Kurt directly in the face. Keeping his hands carefully hidden underneath the table, Kurt flexed them, and when even that felt far from enough, he trained his gaze on the scene outside, snow blanketing the city in a perfect layer of white.

Across from where he was seated, Trent sat with his head wrapped in his arms, fingers laced against the back of his neck. Hurting. Making himself as small as possible.

Or maybe he was just asking for attention. Kurt couldn’t tell.

“I mean, we haven’t been close for years, but we went to the same _school_. We’ve always had classes in common, I could have looked for him at lunch, stopped by his house.”

Not while he was livid.

“I just thought that—”

“— _no_.”

Kurt’s nails dug against his palms, pressing half-moons into his skin and pinching painfully, but it was nothing, _nothing_ compared to the rush of dizzying fury spreading through him. Even as Trent looked up, cheeks wet with tears, the emotions twisting in Kurt’s chest did not abate. For the first time, Kurt felt that he finally understood the reasons why people described anger as an ugly emotion.

“No. No, Trent, you _didn’t_ think,” he argued, voice already rising in pitch. “And you know what? I don’t even _care_ that you didn’t think, because none of this is about you. Do you understand that? Not a _single thing_ about this situation is or should be about you. This is about Blaine, and what he’s been through, and whether or not any of us can start to make this right and — we can’t even guarantee _that_.”

“Kurt—”

Palm slamming against the table, Kurt rose to his feet, shoving books back into his bag and hefting it over his shoulder. “No. We’re done here. I need to talk to Blaine.”

It was an ugly emotion, irrational as it snagged at his lungs and tore through them, and Kurt couldn’t get enough air if he tried. He knew that he was being unreasonable; he wouldn’t have met with Trent in the first place if he felt otherwise, but none of that made the situation feel better.

As he slumped against his car door, Kurt gripped at his shirt, wondering if this was what a heart attack felt like.

Constant damage control.

* * *

_December 13th, 2011_

Her breath, like everything else about her, was soft. It fell from her lips in a whisper, inconstant and fluctuating, throwing him off balance as his arms wrapped around her waist. Again, soft. Smooth. Her hair was pale where his was dark; her fingers were long and tapered as they dragged down his back, and his were wider, stronger as he held her up and pressed their bodies close. When his eyes were open, he liked focusing on the differences between them, on all the ways in which she was what he wasn’t, the contrast a comfort right down to the very color of their skin.

But when his eyes closed, somehow Blaine always found himself wanting to forget. Purposely keeping his attention unfocused. He felt the soft press of lips, he heard a rush of air, and into whose lungs, it really didn’t matter. The weight of arms wrapped around his neck kept him anchored, and the warmth that he buried himself in kept him comforted, and the time for words had long since passed.

He hoped, anyway.

Pressing soft kisses against the line of her collarbone, Blaine fell into a rhythm, nose pressed against the soft floral perfume that she always wore. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, soft and reverent, one hand spread over her spine and the other brushing up the length of her thigh, teasing the hem of her skirt.

“You’re only realizing this now?”

“No,” he laughed, air leaving his lungs in a rush. These were the moments that he loved her most, the quips that caught him off guard and proved beyond a shade of a doubt that she was listening. His fingers toyed with the zipper at the center of her back, curiously feeling around before successfully giving it a deft tug, newly exposing skin. “You caught my attention on the first day.”

“Hmm.”

The words stalled then, and the pair of them returned to a parley of hands, hers demanding as they tugged at his shirt and his inquisitive in turn, pushing aside the fabric of her dress. He brushed his fingertips down the length of her sternum, where a pounding heart was reduced to a mere flutter through skin.

“Blaine.”

His hand dug against the wrinkled fabric of her sheets, cupping underneath the back of her knee and hiking her leg over his waist. Were those her fingers on his jaw?

“ _Blaine_.”

So he kissed her again, pressing into her mouth like he was searching for air, but it was never easy to tell whether or not he was drowning in the first place. That feeling of being suffocated never quite left, but the touch to his cheek was something dear in its temerity.

“Blaine, _stop_.”

And with a pang of guilt, he realized that he couldn’t tell one pair of lips apart from the other.

“You’re shaking.”

* * *

His hand was gripped in both of her own as he sat back against the headboard, chin tilted up while he leaned on the wood.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed.

As she drew closer, Blaine’s first instinct was to pull away, but Quinn only wrapped her arm more securely around his waist and rested her forehead against the curve of his shoulder. “Blaine, you of _all_ people shouldn’t have to apologize to me,” she murmured, nestling her chin against the folds of his shirt.

“You don’t feel like I used you?” Blaine opened his eyes, staring directly ahead. “I show up at your door unannounced, no warning, no reason—”

“You _had_ a reason,” Quinn corrected him, hand briefly squeezing around his elbow. “And if you really want to get technical, _everyone_ uses each other, Blaine. I used you. At least we weren’t fooling each other into expecting a happily ever after.”

He closed his eyes. “I feel sick.”

A few minutes passed before she spoke again, nothing passing between them but the steady rise and fall of their chests in what felt otherwise like time suspended. As she broke the silence, Quinn found Blaine’s hand, giving it a strong squeeze.

“You’re not going to figure this out with me, Blaine, because you’re not romantically invested in me,” she murmured. “Something will always feel wrong and… and _missing_ , and you deserve better than that. And maybe you should talk to someone who’ll understand that better than I do.”

Wordlessly, Blaine shifted, wrapping his arm behind Quinn’s shoulders and resting his chin gently against her temple.

* * *

_April 11th, 2025_

“So, Hannah, what did the teachers cover at school today?”

With dried paint smeared all over her hands, Hannah jumped to her feet, fingers reaching towards the sky in her excitement. “Ooh, ooh!” she yelled, keeping one arm raised in the air and straining as she waved. “Mrs. Rigano taught us about body parts, and — and we learned how to dance the hokey-pokey, and we learned about what the inside body parts do.”

Toes squirming against the chilly hardwood floor, Hannah quickly abandoned her bright pink backpack on the ground, feet thudding against the floor as she ran and flung herself into a pair of warm arms. Her giggles were muffled in the cardigan before she discovered its softness, rubbing full and rosy cheeks against the fabric.

As she looked up, she was met with a smile.

“Inside body parts, mm? Were you scared?”

“ _No_ ,” she protested with a laugh, shaking her head until her pigtails whipped against her forehead. “That’s silly. We’re supposed to take _care_ of our bodies, not be scared of them.”

She raised her arms to be picked up, then nestled herself on the warm lap, sighing in contentment as she leaned her weight back. “Mrs. Rigano told us about our _brains_. We use our eyes to see, but we still have to _think_ about it with our brains. _Everything_ we think about is in here.” Drawing her hand into a fist, Hannah knocked on top of her head for good measure.

“Is _that_ right? Wow. Your brain must be very, very busy then, isn’t it, Hannah?”

The question drew Hannah to silence again as she pursed her lips in thought, feet kicking out aimlessly as her hands grabbed onto the cardigan for purchase. “I think… I think my heart is more busy.”

“…really? And why is that?”

“Because… because it hurts like it’s tired when I’m sad. And I’m sad when Daddy’s not here.”

* * *

_December 16th, 2011, 8:27 PM_

Across the street from Kurt’s house, Blaine huddled in the front seat of his car, bundled in layers of winter clothing and staring ahead without focus. In front of him, the engine kept at a soft purr — a sign of his indecision. He couldn’t park for fear of being too presumptuous. Couldn’t drive away for the tug that he felt in his chest, _needing_ to talk, needing to apologize. Drawing a small breath in between his teeth, Blaine stared down at his phone, regularly swiping past the lock screen and then letting it fade back to black.

Even if he called Kurt, what would he say?

Blaine sighed deeply, brows furrowing as his head tilted back to bounce against the headrest, feet slamming down carefully away from the car pedals.

Suddenly, a knock sounded on his window.

“S- _shit_ ,” Blaine whispered under his breath, eyes wide as he glanced up at the surly man crowding his view, gesturing for Blaine to roll down his window. Complying, Blaine carefully squared his shoulders, expression hard and jaw locked in preparation for whatever scolding he was about to receive.

“You Blaine Anderson?”

Well. He wasn’t prepared for that. Blaine stared, his eyes wide. “Do I know you?”

“No,” the man said, shaking his head once. “But I’ve heard a hell of a lot about you recently, kid. I’m Kurt’s old man. Call me Burt. Now why don’t you kill that engine before I scold you for how much you’re beating up that car of yours while sitting there?” Although there was no smile on Burt’s face, there was a softer quality to his gaze which Blaine carefully caved to, switching the car off and unbuckling his belt.

He lowered his gaze respectfully as he climbed out of the car, although his eyes remained wide. “Sorry about that,” he muttered, slamming the door shut, face flushed up to his ears.

“You can apologize by coming inside and having a little talk before Kurt gets home,” Burt said matter-of-factly, shrugging his shoulders before his lips quirked. “I think both of us could use it.”

With his hand stuffed in his pocket, Blaine ran his fingers over the hard outline of his phone, wishing he could take a moment and ask Kurt what exactly about Blaine he had decided to share with his father.

* * *

“You want anything to drink, kid?”

After carefully hanging his coat and scarf away in the closet, Blaine stood awkwardly in the Hummel kitchen, eyes scanning over the chairs in the dining room and den. Even though Burt had been as welcoming as Blaine imagined any parent being to some strange kid, Blaine felt like nothing short of an imposition, of a stranger who didn’t belong. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, shaping himself into the most compact shape possible.

“No, thank you,” he replied. “I’m fine.”

Raising his brows, Burt stepped closer with two mugs in hand, carefully holding one out. “Well, too bad. I made too much hot chocolate, and Kurt won’t be happy with me if he thinks I drank it all myself.”

Cautiously, Blaine took the offering, enjoying the warmth of the mug without yet taking a sip. As he ducked more closely to the lip of the mug, Blaine was able to take better glances around the house — it was smaller than his parents’ home, although not by much, but the biggest difference was in the style of all the décor. His parents had the tendency to opt for safe choices, eggshell walls and worn leather upholstery, but the color choices in this house were bold, and not a single one seemed to match Burt Hummel’s sense of personal style.

When he glanced Burt’s way again, Blaine was startled to find Burt staring right back at him.

“All Kurt,” he remarked vaguely, then tilted his head in the direction of the den. “Come on, Anderson. Loosen up a little. I’m not out to get ya.”

* * *

They sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping at their cocoa. Burt was the first one to finish, leaning forward to rest the empty mug on the coffee table, then nestling himself back fully in the armchair, kicking out the footrest.

“You want to tell me why you’re here to see Kurt?” Burt asked, folding his hands loosely on his lap.

Keeping his nose close to the mug, Blaine breathed in the scent of the chocolate, drawing out his time. His skin felt too tight and too warm, and even though he believed that Burt deserved an open and honest answer, he was too distracted to come up with anything specific. Too nervous to admit to Burt that there was a certain type of comfort that he found in Kurt’s company, even as it warred against the unease he felt at being incapable of understanding it.

“I just wanted to talk to him,” murmurs Blaine, finally taking a deeper gulp of cocoa.

Scratching momentarily at his temple, Burt leaned forward, elbows resting on top of his knees. “Kurt’s a great kid,” Burt acknowledged with an easy nod. “Hell of a lot better than I ever hoped for. Real sharp, too. But, Blaine, you gotta realize that he’s still just a kid, right? Just like you. And although I don’t doubt that the two of you have got a lot you can share and talk about with each other, it’s important to remember that there are adults here for you, too.”

His eyes were hot, and Blaine felt stricken with something between indignation and humiliation. Adults had distance, had the time to build up their defenses, and Blaine felt so far from there that the mere thought of trying to get anyone to understand was insurmountable. “I appreciate it, Mr. Hummel,” he said, with little weight behind his voice, “but I’m not sure you’d understand.”

From his seat, Blaine saw Burt shake his head slightly, and Blaine took a deep breath. “I’m not saying that I would,” Burt began carefully, keeping his eyes trained closely on Blaine. “If you won’t go to people for support unless they completely understand where you’re coming from, Blaine, that’s going to make things a lot harder. Unnecessarily so.”

Blaine closed his eyes.

“Do I completely understand what Kurt goes through? Hell no,” Burt continued, his voice emphatic. “I don’t know what it’s like to be a man attracted to men in a world where a lot of people think that’s wrong. I don’t know what it’s like to have to put up with all the crap that people throw his way. But I can still support him. I can still listen to his problems and help however he lets me. And I’ll tell you this, Blaine — maybe I don’t understand all of what you or Kurt goes through, but I get being confused. And I get being afraid.”

It was getting harder to ignore the burn in his eyes, and Blaine thinned his lips carefully, not sure what to do with the fact that some of these words were slipping past his defenses. In his hands, the cocoa was growing cold, but he took another sip regardless, carefully trying not to flinch at the sweetness that now seemed unbearable.

“Maybe more importantly than that, I know what it’s like to be afraid as a _parent_. And there ain’t anything that’s going to stop me from doing my best to be there for kids who need a little more help standing up for themselves.”

Dizzy with the blood which suddenly rushed through his head, Blaine blinked his eyes open again. “Are you telling me to go back and tell my parents about all of this?”

Burt held out a hand, gently cutting off Blaine’s words. “No. Kid, I may not know exactly what ‘all of this’ means, but I know that people need privacy from their loved ones sometimes.” His expression warmed into that of a smile — in that moment, Blaine thought that he caught the family resemblance. “It’s important that you’re comfortable, and I’m glad you’ve found something like that with Kurt, but hey, if you want some old geezer who’s not one of your parents, and who doesn’t plan on tattling on you to his son, I’m here for you. It’s just an option.”

Glancing down, Blaine set his mug on the coffee table, then leaned back. With his hands in his lap, Blaine ran the pad of a thumb over his opposite wrist, rubbing in circular motions to help ease stiffened skin.

“Thanks, Mr. Hummel.”

“Like I said, call me Burt. There anything you want to talk about tonight, Blaine?”

Blaine looked up, gaze brushing over Burt’s expression, and he became aware once more of the uneasy fluttering in his stomach. When was Kurt’s curfew?

“I don’t… I don’t think I’m comfortable just yet, but I’ll think about it,” he admitted.

“Fair enough,” said Burt without any heat. With a slight groan, he stood up and stretched. “Feel free to hang out here, watch some TV until Kurt gets back. I’m gonna go catch up on some football.”

With a nod, Blaine watched as Burt drew closer, then felt the weight of a hand clapping down on his shoulder.

“Courage, Anderson.”

* * *

_December 16th, 2011, 9:15 PM_

The sound of a car door suddenly slamming shut in the distance drew Blaine out of his reverie, quickly rubbing at his mouth and sitting up where he’d dozed off. The den was still brightly lit, but Blaine could see that the sky outside was completely dark now, the outdoors only brightened by streetlights in the distance and their reflection off the smooth stretches of snow.

Hearing keys jangling by the front door, Blaine’s chest seized yet further, and he shut his eyes tightly as he curled in the corner of the couch.

“Dad, I’m home,” Blaine heard Kurt announce, accompanied by a scuffing of boots against the doormat. “Sorry that I almost missed curfew, but I didn’t realize the roads would be so difficult to drive tonight.”

“You coulda called,” Burt pointed out, voice muffled with the distance.

“I will next time,” promised Kurt, padded steps getting louder as he made his way through the hall, then suddenly stopped.

Hearing the clock tick in the near silence, Blaine finally opened his eyes, drawing in a slow breath as he turned to see Kurt standing, hand clutching tight around the strap of his messenger bag.

“Hi,” said Blaine.

“…hi.”

“I know I should have called,” added Blaine in a rush as he clamored to his feet, “but I wasn’t sure what to say or how to explain the fact that I just, out of nowhere, I needed to see you.”

Kurt’s brows furrowed and he raised his hand, looking remarkably like his father’s son. “Blaine, it’s fine. You don’t need to explain or excuse yourself; I’m… just glad to see you. I’m glad you felt comfortable enough to come to my house.”

Blaine attempted a smile, lips quirking. “Actually, if it weren’t for your father crossing the street and knocking on my car window, I’m not sure that I would have made it inside.

“Well then, I’m glad that I have the best dad in the world.”

* * *

_December 16th, 2011, 11:03 PM_

“I didn’t tell him anything, you know. About us, or what exactly you’re going through.”

Somehow, over the course of the past couple of hours, Blaine had managed to make his way to Kurt’s bedroom. There was something about the space which felt safer to him than talking at length in the family den, and Blaine was pretty sure that he wasn’t the only one who felt it — inside his room, Kurt seemed more animated, spoke with more confidence, and rarely held back.

It didn’t seem like the same hesitation that Blaine knew so well, that of being a stranger in his own home, but it was clear that over the years, Kurt had built himself a fortress. All along the walls were ornaments of varying sizes, but all of them shared a simple theme. They shone.

Wearing an extra set of Kurt’s pajamas, Blaine sat on Kurt’s bed, neatly slid under the covers. “I didn’t get the impression that you did,” said Blaine. “As accepting as your dad might be, I suspect I’d have fallen under a lot more scrutiny if he knew that we kissed in a school bathroom.”

Kurt smiled. “Probably. It wasn’t long ago that my dad admitted to me that he couldn’t even wrap his head around the idea of me dating. I think it has something to do with my face.” He lifted his chin loftily. “I’ve retained a great deal of youthful innocence in my looks.”

Blaine shook his head, letting out a slow exhale. “I envy your confidence,” he admitted.

Grin widening, Kurt reached out to give Blaine’s shoulder a soft squeeze. “And I envy your gorgeous singing voice, but we can’t have everything we want, right?”

In the dim light of the room, Kurt’s complexion looked warmer than usual, slightly reminiscent of the time they’d come across one another on campus long after school hours. Even though they’d spent plenty of time around one another, for the first time, there was no pressure for Blaine to look away. No prying gazes around them, no desperation brought about by a fear of discovery — just a pair of blue eyes staring back at him, and for the first time, Blaine wondered at how sad they looked. Was he projecting?

It wasn’t hard to imagine how Blaine might have contributed to that weight.

Reaching out tentatively, Blaine’s hand stopped on the edge of Kurt’s pillow, its weight pursing the fabric. Both of them were turned towards one another, the rise and fall of their breath made evident by the sheets draped over their sides. Kurt’s gaze dropped down to Blaine’s hand, resting there for a moment before he reached out to cover it with his own, and Blaine let out a sigh at its warmth, palm soft against his skin.

“I’m sorry,” Blaine murmured, closing his eyes.

“For what?”

Blaine’s gaze shot up, and he shook his head, cheek pressed into his pillow. “For how much of a hard time I’ve given you. The horrible things I’ve said. How difficult all of this has been.”

When his throat began to strain, Blaine felt Kurt squeeze his hand, quieting down as Kurt shushed him gently. “Blaine, do you realize how far you’ve come already? None of it looked easy; I’ve never gotten the impression that it was easy. But last summer, you wouldn’t even _look_ at me.” Kurt licked his lips, turning his hand until their fingers laced. “Now we’re here.”

“It’s still hard,” confessed Blaine. His hand shifted in Kurt’s hold, but Kurt didn’t loosen his grip. “I still feel like I’m doing something wrong by being here. Like I’m sick.”

Kurt closed his eyes quickly, squeezing them shut, and Blaine could sense something in his chest cracking and spilling over. “I don’t — I didn’t mean it like that,” Blaine quickly stammered, tone pleading. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, Kurt. You’re strong, and so compassionate and unafraid to be _you_ , and when I see that, it’s like none of that other stuff matters. But I don’t know who _I_ am, Kurt. And I feel like I’m trapped.”

“Blaine.”

“It would be so much easier if I didn’t care about you,” added Blaine, closing his eyes to keep from seeing Kurt’s expression.

“Blaine, that’s not true.”

“Because then I wouldn’t be in this position of hurting you no matter what I do.”

Blaine couldn’t be sure, but there was a whisper which accompanied the rustling of fabric, sounding like a plea on the shell of his ear. All around him, he felt surrounded by searing warmth, easing the tension from his body; when his hands raised, they pressed against stretches of soft skin over hard muscle, but they fell limp again when he noticed the touch of lips to his temple.

“You smell like flowers,” murmured Blaine.

“It’s the closest thing I could find to my mother’s perfume. When I use it, it feels like… I’m a little less alone. I still have half a bottle of her brand, but they discontinued it years ago, so I keep it in this little broken dresser of hers in the attic. When I’m lonely, I just open the drawers, and it smells like her.”

Shifting his hands, Blaine gripped at Kurt’s shirt, tugging at the fabric. “Why are you telling me this?” Blaine gasped, leaning forward until his nose was nestled against the side of Kurt’s neck.

“People get hurt all the time without trying,” Kurt explained, and Blaine buried himself further against the thrum of his voice. “That shouldn’t be a reason to close yourself off. I’m stronger than you think, and I don’t like to back down.”

“I know.”

“Stop trying to fight everything by yourself.”

In the dark, Blaine blinked his eyes open again as he felt Kurt slide away. Underneath the sheets, their legs were tangled; on their pillows, their hands were still entwined. They were tangled in a way that Blaine couldn’t even begin to process or fathom, so he simply watched, eyes trained on the flush of Kurt’s cheeks and the resolve in his eyes.

“Okay.”

* * *

_December 17th, 2011, 1:16 AM_

Kurt woke with a sudden pull of air, legs kicking out as though trying to pedal above water. The pounding of blood in his ears had yet to subside, muffling all of his senses as he fought against a headache starting to anchor itself in his temples. As his panic lessened, Kurt noticed the shape in front of him, emanating warmth as its contour rose and fell regularly; it took a few seconds for Kurt to remember who it was that had spent the night, but he breathed a sigh of relief upon realizing that Blaine hadn’t run away while Kurt was sleeping. Or, for that matter, hadn’t been simply a dream doomed to dissipate in the morning.

Smoothing the fabric of his pillowcase and burying his cheek against the cushion, Kurt closed his eyes, fighting dizziness. By any other standards, the night should have hardly registered — just a friend spending the evening and a couple of chaste kisses shared. But Blaine was an exception, and he was always the exception, and ordinary didn’t exist between them. What he felt towards Blaine was fierce, if otherwise indescribable, a constant push against his sternum which he could try to ignore in the moment, but never erased.

He wanted to ask about the book.

The lost summers.

But would Blaine even answer?

Biting down on his lower lip, Kurt reached out, stopping just an inch short of Blaine’s back. He drew his hand down the bed, mirroring that small, yet insurmountable distance that Kurt sensed between them. There was no right to ask about what had happened to Blaine. No way for him to ask without tracking dirt into Blaine’s heart.

So he’d wait.

When he listened carefully, Kurt found that Blaine’s breathing was stilted, and his shoulders were visibly tense under the faint light from the street. Blaine was awake.

Kurt drew in a deep breath, turning on the bed until he laid flat on his back, staring up at the uneven surface of his ceiling. Only seconds later, he reached under his head, grabbing his pillow and tucking it under his arm before he slid carefully out from under the covers and reached towards the notebook on his desk.

_Didn’t want to risk waking you. I’m downstairs on the couch — please text if you need me.  
I hope you sleep well._

Before Kurt reached the stairs, he heard his bed creak in the distance.

* * *

_December 17th, 2011, 8:00 AM_

Quickly silencing the alarm on his phone, Kurt pushed himself up into the corner of the couch, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The house was quiet, save for the occasional chirping of birds outside and the sound of tires skidding through snow. After pausing to listen for any noise from indoors, Kurt turned his attention to his phone, sliding past the lock screen.

No new messages.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** This chapter makes allusions to suicidal ideation and a non-graphic attempt at self-harm. Please be aware before reading this chapter. If you want to skip past those portions, avoid the timestamps **December 25th, 2011, 10:54 PM** and **December 26th, 2011, 12:21 AM**.

_December 25th, 2011, 9:07 AM_

The type of snowfall which Blaine enjoyed most was the quiet kind. Thick and heavy, it fell in clumps that tumbled down under their own weight before meeting the ground, becoming indistinguishable from the vast stretch of white blanketing the neighborhood. When he woke, it was to that quiet, a thin stripe of light peeking through between his curtains and illuminating his entire room in muted gold. He focused on the colors for once, glad for the distraction as he slid back down under his sheets, tugging them more closely around his shoulders until he felt swathed and secure.

In recent years, the holidays meant being able to decide exactly when he was ready to head down the stairs, and Blaine took advantage of the opportunity, listening silently to the clipped steps across the kitchen downstairs.

Though his head still felt heavy with sleep, he smiled.

It wasn’t until his phone buzzed loudly from his nightstand that Blaine finally sat up, scratching idly through his curls before swiping past his lock screen. His chest grew momentarily tight, but relaxed upon seeing the text — a confirmation from his elder brother, Cooper, that his travel was unaffected by weather delays and that he’d be home in time for dinner.

There were other messages crowding his inbox, older ones, read so many times that they’d be dog-eared if written on paper. Blaine left them alone for the time being.

By the time he made his way downstairs, an hour had passed, long enough for him to tame his curls.

“There’s my handsome son,” his mother greeted, all smiles as she held her arms open and wrapped Blaine in an embrace, pressing firm kisses to either of his cheeks. “Such a sleepyhead now. I remember back when Christmas Day meant being woken up by you and Cooper before the sun rose. But I suppose you’re growing up now and finally learning to appreciate good sleep.”

He laughed, nose wrinkling as he noticed the flour clinging to her palms, sure that some of it must have ended up on his cardigan. His mother arched a brow, probably having noticed his expression, then grabbed his shoulders firmly, leaving white streaks on his cardigan.

“Mom,” he protested, brows furrowed in pleading. “Are you trying to hint that you don’t like my outfit?”

Snorting in derision, she reached up, patting Blaine’s cheek. “I gave you good enough genes that you’d even look good wearing nothing but a paper bag,” she declared, her grin crooked. “I’m just telling you to _relax_ , Blaine. You’ve been so tense at your new school, and I know preparing for Cooper’s teasing isn’t easy, but it’s Christmas. Smile for your mother?”

Blaine complied, rubbing at his cheek. “Merry Christmas, mom.”

“Merry Christmas. Now, since you’re here, you can help me with the cassava cake. It seems to be the only thing that both you and your brother really enjoy for dessert, and thankfully it’s also easy enough for either of you to bake.” She exhaled contentedly, hands clasping at Blaine’s waist and directing him towards the kitchen island, where most of the ingredients were already laid out and prepared. “Hold on, let me get you an apron before you start.”

“I thought I was supposed to relax?”

Eyes narrowing, his mother pursed her lips before plucking a polka dotted apron from the pantry. “There’s a difference between getting flour and getting condensed milk out of your clothes, and since I’m the one who does the laundry in this house, I get to pick when preventative measures are taken,” she declared, tying the apron strings into a nice, even bow.

“No argument there,” Blaine replied, shaking his head. He tugged one of the stools closer, hooking his heel on the footrest before swiveling around to watch his mother. As always, her hair cascaded down her back in shiny waves, attracting his gaze with their movement. Even though his hair had a similar quality, Blaine always enjoyed his mother’s more, and how it suited her vivacity.

Again, his chest tightened, this time accompanied with an uncomfortable lurch of his stomach as Blaine started to measure out ingredients for the cake, pouring each neatly into the mixing bowl. Near the stove, his mother toiled over French toast, filling the room with the scent of cinnamon and apples.

“Mom?”

She looked up, blinking. “Yes, Blaine?”

His mouth felt dry, and his hands felt weak. Keeping them still enough to handle the bowl was a trial, and every breath was conscious, carefully measured in an effort to keep the flush of his cheeks down. (Or was he blanching? Blaine couldn’t tell.)

The words tumbled from his lips before he could ready himself, thoughts unbidden.

“When do you know that you’re ready to take the next step with someone?”

It couldn’t have taken more than a second or two for her to respond, but it still felt like an eternity to Blaine before he noticed the smile stretching across her face, incongruous with the twist in his abdomen. Was it better to share a partial truth than to hide everything?

He couldn’t breathe well under that mask.

“Oh, honey,” his mother replied, chuckling as she wiped her hands down on her apron, turning the stove off before moving to seat herself on the next stool, hands neatly clasped on her lap. “I don’t know why, but I’d actually assumed that you’d gone pretty far with Quinn without telling me. You’re so quiet to begin with, and god only knows that Cooper never talked with me about any of this. But I guess it just goes to show how different siblings can be.”

His jaw locked, his lips pressed thin, and something must have shown on his face, because before long, Blaine felt his hands being pulled away from the bowl and clasped in a pair far warmer.

“Don’t go shy on me now,” she murmured, ducking down to meet Blaine’s downturned gaze. “I’m glad that we’re talking about this. You and Quinn are still so young, after all. When I was your age, I never stayed with a single boy for so long — don’t tell your father, but I knew to play the field.”

Flushing for certain now, Blaine’s gaze darted quickly. Outside, the snow was still falling, clearly visible through the blinds of the kitchen window. Blaine imagined the quiet outside, the cold drawing everything to a delicate stillness. His skin itched.

He blinked, keeping his eyes closed for a few seconds. “Mom, I’m not talking about Quinn.”

Her hands tightened. “The two of you broke up?”

“Yes. Several days ago, actually—”

Sighing, his mother drew back slightly, although her hands remained tight around Blaine’s. “Why didn’t you tell me? What was it, almost four months that you’d been dating? I thought the two of you were doing so well, and she looks like she’s been shaping up lately.” Clucking her tongue, Blaine’s mother shook her head. “Well, but I suppose the two of you are young. Hopefully the two of you can remain friends; she’s been there for you since you transferred, after all.”

Throat tight, Blaine nodded his head quickly. “We — we are, but that’s not the point, mom. I’m not asking about Quinn right now, I _know_ we weren’t right for each other.”

“Oh, that’s right, you mentioned taking the next step. So soon, Blaine? Are you sure that you’re ready to move on?”

_Breathe_.

“From Quinn, _yes_ , I am.”

“Do I know about this other girl? Have you mentioned her before?”

He couldn’t.

From there, her voice faded, little more than words etched into the glass. _Blaine, please don’t give me that look, I’m just trying to understand what you’re going through right now, and I can’t do that unless you talk._ Or maybe it was the pounding of his pulse that rang louder in his ears, like the constant beating of a drum. _Maybe you’re right, and it was time for you and Quinn to part ways._ The worst of it was that barrier which stood between the two of them, unyielding. _But it doesn’t matter if you’re fifteen or fifty; moving on in a few days is rash, Blaine._ He couldn’t tell if it was a pane of glass he was looking through, or a wall that he’d erected on his own.

But he stared through, catching glimpses of warmth and knowing that it was there for him. There for his sake, however inaccessible. Yet it was too far to swim to when he couldn’t get a lungful of air.

“You’re right,” he blurted, eyes wide. “You’re right, I think… maybe I’m rushing into things.”

Her eyes, so knowing that they could almost fool him into forgetting.

“I’ve just had too much time to think lately.”

* * *

_December 17th, 2011, 8:03 AM_

To say that any of this came as a surprise would be a lie. Already, the night before felt as though it were hidden behind a thick veil, consumed in smoke, and the details disappeared with the ticking of the seconds. It was enough time to lean back and see a different picture entirely, one of two boys getting lost in each other without knowing what it was they were supposed to find. How had they not drowned in it yet? How were they keeping all of this contained at all?

The longer Kurt sat on the couch, the more his nerves frayed, eyes wide as they stared down at his phone screen, fingers hovering. He could send a message to make sure that Blaine was fine, but what if Blaine didn’t respond? Kurt had already left the ball in Blaine’s side the court.

Maybe that system was outdated.

Locking his phone again, Kurt’s brows furrowed as he brought it up to his chin, tapping restlessly. His father wasn’t up yet. It’d be hours before Mercedes felt up to Skyping, and Rachel always made the most of holidays with her dads. There was nothing to do bit fixate on everything, every single memory.

The warmth of Blaine’s body as it trembled in his hold, the slight stubble which brushed roughly against Kurt’s neck, and even though these were details that seemed so minor in the eyes of many, to Kurt, they were everything. He could still hear Blaine’s strained admission, not wanting to injure Kurt, carelessly or otherwise.

For them, love would be a minefield.

Suddenly, a creak in the floorboards drew Kurt up to full height, eyes wide as he peered over his shoulder and down the hall. Though he was partially obscured by shadows, Kurt could immediately make out the silhouette of Blaine’s body, heart leaping shortly after until it pounded in his throat.

“Sorry,” Blaine whispered, not taking a step further. “Did I wake you?”

It was enough for Kurt to push his blankets aside, quickly shaking his head as he stood to his feet, phone grasped tightly in one hand while he brushed through his hair with the other. “No, no. Actually, my alarm went off a few minutes ago, so you’re fine.”

Blaine pulled his lower lip in between his teeth. “I know. I actually heard that from your room, I was just trying to make this a little less awkward.”

“When trying to make things less awkward, I think rule number one is that you don’t point out what you’re doing,” Kurt said, laughing with a light cough, feeling his cheeks flood with heat.

Though Blaine still didn’t take another step forward, he seemed to stand taller now, more visible in the hall than before. “Maybe, but hey, I just made you laugh.”

The distance finally too much to bear, Kurt tossed his phone back lightly on the blankets, stepping forward, hands stuffed in his pockets. A step further through that often impregnable distance, until he swore that he could feel Blaine’s warmth in the air, and caught that slight floral scent on his skin, lingering from the night before.

Blaine spoke up before Kurt could figure out how. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being patient with me and still wanting to try. For realizing that I needed distance when even I couldn’t figure that out,” Blaine murmured, words fading into a voiceless whisper. Kurt couldn’t tell if Blaine was trembling or if it was simply his vision swimming.

Either way, he reached out, hands settling gently on Blaine’s waist. His thumbs smoothed over the fabric in slow, sweeping motions, and underneath the press of his hands, he felt Blaine’s muscles relax.

“Everyone deserves to feel safe.”

* * *

_December 25th, 2011, 11:24 AM_

Water ran cold over his fingers as Blaine stood in front of his bathroom sink, his gaze following its swirling motion as his skin reddened from the temperature. The house was filled now with distant sounds from the television, and laughter as more of their relatives from the area gathered. The louder the surroundings, the easier it was for Blaine to slip away, so he couldn’t complain.

In front of him, the mirror stood even, but Blaine couldn’t help feeling that its reflection was as undulating as the water which ran through his fingers. No two glances yielded the same expression, and he didn’t feel like himself, didn’t comfortably rest in his body. The cold tightened everything a little bit, fastening his skin more securely, allaying the itch, but he couldn’t leave the water on forever. Shoving the tap off, Blaine gripped at the counter with both of his hands, arms trembling under the force, head bowed and refusing to glance back up at the stranger whose reflection waited.

With his sleeves rolled up, Blaine caught a glimpse of the lines stretching across his inner wrist, faint but clearly present. After shaking his hands dry, he tugged open the top drawer of his bathroom cabinet, tugging out one of the few hair ties he’d stolen from his mother’s room, looping them around his wrist.

He could count the time with the snaps, each bright and welcome, clipped like the pulse in his chest.

“Baby _brother!_ ”

Inhaling sharply, Blaine quickly dropped both hands, feeling water seep into his pockets as he whirled around to catch an armful of his elder brother.

“Cooper,” he stammered, blinking as his brother gave an even tighter squeeze. “Did you just get here? Mom said that you were on the road, but it’s snowing hard enough that I couldn’t guess when—”

“Yes, yes, I just arrived ten minutes ago,” he sighed, leaning back to clap both of his hands on Blaine’s shoulders, the jar nearly driving him into the ground. “And though I must confess myself _disappointed_ when my little brother wasn’t waiting for me at the door, given my general level of unpredictability, I’ll just take it as proof of my stealth and move on.” Releasing his hold on Blaine, Cooper turned and took the few steps to Blaine’s bed before plopping down with a noteworthy bounce.

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” Blaine replied, brows furrowing for a moment before he relented, also making his way to the bed, although he sat down much more carefully on the mattress. Slipping his hands out of his pockets, he looped a couple of his fingers around the hair tie, but didn’t tug. “So… all the way from Los Angeles. How does it feel to leave the palm trees for snow?”

“Honestly, baby brother, I’ve missed having seasons in the year. LA is great, and I feel more at home there than I ever did here in Westerville, but there’s something about the snow that just _makes_ Christmas, right?” Cooper said, grinning at Blaine, still in the process of sprawling in a comfortable position on Blaine’s bed.

Blaine tried to reply, but found that he didn’t quite have the words, nor the experience to relate. The only times he’d been outside of Ohio were on vacations or during the summers he did his best to block out of his memory. Some trips weren’t memorable for the location. Sometimes, location barely factored in at all, aside from creating a distance that one couldn’t easily breach.

But the idea that some place could feel more like home than Westerville did, that left Blaine with a weight in his throat, nodding to stall for time.

“Do you remember how we used to go sledding all the time? Mom and dad made us believe that the hills around here were actually some of the tallest mountains in the world,” Cooper reminisced, leaning forward to tug at Blaine’s arm, coaxing him closer on the bed. “We should head back to the hill and see how small it looks now. All of Ohio’s pretty flat, Blaine. You’ve _got_ to get out more, see more of the world, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Yeah, who’s going to pay for that?” Blaine asks, good-natured but sobered in tone. “I mean, mom and dad could… but I’m still in high school. It’s not a joy ride they’d want to pay for.”

He felt a hand close around his shoulder again, shaking him, though instead of the heartening feel Cooper was undoubtedly trying to share, Blaine felt jarred. Uncomfortable. Shaken slightly from his skin.

“Hey, it’s gonna be pilot season coming up before you know it, and I’m feeling _really_ great about some of the rumors I’ve heard swirling around. There are a couple of really exciting options, two different spy shows that I’m interested in. Maybe if we have the time this break, you can help me film some tapes to send in?” Cooper leaned forward, doing his best to catch Blaine’s gaze. “As soon as I have better pay coming in, I’m flying you out there for a couple of weeks. Showing you everything there is to love. It’s going to be so much more fun than this tired old town. Okay?”

Blaine smiled, feeling some warmth in his chest as he did so. Trusting Cooper to deliver on a promise was probably asking too much, but he believed with all of his heart that Cooper _did_ want to offer those opportunities. He believed that Cooper genuinely missed having family around. Blaine couldn’t imagine any city in the world removing the importance of family.

“What’s it like out there?”

Cooper raised a brow, as though not quite expecting the question. Tilting his head, he fell back against the pillows of the bed with a huff of air, crossing both arms to rest underneath him as he stared up at the ceiling, expression pleased. “Blaine, it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before. If you know the right places to go, LA’s a risk-taker’s heaven. There’s nothing that you can’t do or see while you’re there. Of course, you have to know how to navigate your way around, because there are plenty of people camped there in hopes of striking a single golden opportunity — so you have to stick with someone who’s been there for a while. But it’s great. And such easy access to the beach. I know a couple of directors down there with their own private beaches, and the sand’s so clean, the air smells like the sea. It’s great. I feel like moving there was the best decision I could have made.”

Watching from the side, Blaine turned to stare at his lap again, hesitantly coming to a rest beside Cooper, careful not to let the pillows rumple his hair too much.

“What about the people there?” Blaine asked, hands rising up to rest on his chest, fingers lacing. “Are people more open-minded there than they are here?”

“Are you trying to write an anthropology paper or something? Why are you asking a question like that?”

“Cooper, just… humor me for a second, okay?”

For a few seconds, they listened together to the noisy sounds of the kitchen below, and Blaine was startled when Cooper suddenly made the decision to lay on his side, giving his brother a serious look.

“Yes and no. Would it be better in your case? I definitely think so, which is why I want to get you out there as soon as possible, spend some time in my studio,” Cooper said, his grin crooked. “But it’s not perfect. I mean, when you live in a city full of actors…”

“Everyone acts?”

“You have to realize when they are, yeah.”

* * *

_December 25th, 2011, 11:29 AM_

More than any other time of the year, Christmas vacation gave Kurt a chance to make love to his kitchen. Thanksgiving was an exercise in time management, in rushing home from school that Wednesday to start preparing the turkey and doing his best to avoid using the freezer for any of the dishes, all while worrying about the tests they were inevitably given in class during the week leading up. Christmas, however, gave Kurt the chance to think, the view outdoors completely blanketed by white and free of distraction, and most of the time he ended up gravitating towards the kitchen, working with his hands rather than his words.

It was a ritual that his dad took some part in, wandering in and out to help Kurt out, but there were always specials on the television as well — Kurt didn’t want to take that time away from his dad, who sorely needed it after a busy start of winter in the shop.

Carole and Finn were out for the time being, probably to pay Finn’s father their respect, Kurt assumed. Either way, it was an opportune moment for father and son to be together as they’d learned to be for so many years, though their relationship was far more comfortable now than it used to be.

“So, you wanna tell me more about what’s going on with that Anderson kid?”

Usually, at least.

Kurt raised a brow, then went back to ricing his potatoes, pouring the little curls out on top of a waiting layer of flour. “And how long have you been waiting to ask me _that_ question?” he asked, willing his stomach to stop turning as he carefully sifted the mixture, getting ready to knead.

“Ever since that night he stayed over, but I figured maybe you needed a little time to think,” Burt admitted with a shrug, checking on the pot of boiling broth meant for their gravy. “Besides, I check up on the both of you early in the morning before I headed to the shop — very glad that you did the right thing and slept in a different room. There would’ve been more trouble for you if you didn’t.”

Immediately, Kurt’s cheeks flooded with heat, and he frowned as he resolutely began driving his palms against the dough.

“ _Dad_ , please.”

“Hey, I know I invited the kid in ‘cause he looked like he was in a spot of trouble, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop worrying about _your_ back in the process. Or that I’m going to let up on the house rules, especially when I keep your stepbrother to them, too.”

When the blush in his cheeks refused to go down, Kurt shook his head, hard enough that he felt certain strands of his hair fall out of place.

“We didn’t do anything like that, dad. We’re not dating or anything, and if we started, I’d let you know before anything happened. He’s just in a difficult position right now. There were some things that happened in the past, and he’s…” Kurt sighed, trying to figure out how to explain without drawing too much attention. He wasn’t sure if he wanted his father directly involved in this. Some part of him remained convinced that his father simply wouldn’t understand, no matter how hard he tried.

In this case, that was a good thing.

“He’s doing his best to move on and do what’s best for him,” Kurt concluded.

While his father didn’t look entirely convinced, Kurt breathed a small sigh of relief when Burt turned back to his pot, giving it a stir and skimming the top of excess oil. “Alright, well… if he ever needs a place to stay again, you let him know that our doors are open to him, alright?”

Kurt smiled, briefly. “Thanks, dad.”

They stood in silence for a while longer, Kurt starting to roll out his dough in preparation for making gnocchi, while his dad lowered the heat of the stove to a simmer. Just as Burt was turning to the fridge and pulling out a bottle of beer, Kurt took a breath, looking up to stop his father before he retreated to the den for a couple of hours.

“What is it, Kurt?” he asked, popping the top of his bottle but not yet taking a drink, stopping by his son’s side with a soft look of concern.

“I know that my being gay hasn’t been easy for either of us, and I know it makes you afraid for me sometimes,” Kurt said, watching his father’s expression sober further and pressing his lips tightly closed for a moment. “But were you ever afraid _of_ me because of it? Afraid of me for being gay?”

His stomach plummeted when his father didn’t answer immediately. But Kurt stood there, refusing to back down from the question now that it was out, watching as Burt’s gaze lowered, then drew back up again.

“Kurt, you just need to realize… if you become a parent someday, and I selfishly hope you do, the moment when you see your kid for the first time, everything changes,” said Burt. “It ain’t about what you want for yourself anymore. It ain’t about making yourself comfortable, and you won’t have the time to go on a bender just for the hell of it anymore. ‘Cause all of the time, you’re thinking about that kid, that kid in your arms you’re supposed to protect, and it’s _your_ job to make him or her happy.”

Kurt took a small breath, trying to keep it from wavering.

“And frankly, there isn’t a better job I’ve ever had in my life,” Burt said fiercely, nodding resolutely as his hand rested on the counter. “I’ve never been afraid of you, Kurt. You’re my whole world.”

Kurt felt something break free in his chest then, breath punched out of him as he carefully pulled his hands away from the dough, not wanting to ruin his process as he caught his breath. Before Kurt could, he felt his father wrap his arms around his shoulders, thick and warm and so incredibly safe.

“Thanks, dad,” he whispered, trying his best not to get too much starch onto Burt’s shirt as he wrapped his arms back in return.

“You’re not the one who needs to say thanks, Kurt. I’m the one who gets to be proud of having a better son than I ever hoped for.”

* * *

_December 25th, 2011, 8:17 PM_

“Blaine, honey, are you sure that you don’t want to come with us to the Turners? They haven’t seen you in years, and you used to be so close to Ernest.”

Blaine leaned forward and stared down at the entryway of the house from the top of the stairs, offering a wan smile as he watched his parents and Cooper all slip into their winter coats, bundling up against the chill outside. He shook his head, apologetic but firm, hands gripping the banister tightly before he released one to wave them gently out the door.

“I wouldn’t be very good company tonight,” he admitted, wincing slightly. “And the last thing I’d want to do is give them a poor impression after not having seen each other for years. I think I’m just going to take some antacids and head to bed early.”

“Poor darling,” his mother said quietly, hesitating even as her husband tugged lightly at her shoulders. “To be sick on Christmas, of all days. I hope it wasn’t anything I made for lunch that’s upsetting your stomach; I’d never let myself live that down.”

Blaine smiled, shaking his head. “Your cooking was divine, mom. I think I’m still adjusting to sleeping in during the mornings, that’s all. It’s like jet lag.”

“If you’re sure…”

“We’re going to be late,” his father said quietly, pushing a lock of his wife’s hair behind her ear before she needed in return. He glanced up at his younger son. “Blaine, we’ll only be a few minutes away. If there’s anything you need, if you start feeling worse, I want you to give us a call, alright? Don’t be afraid to reach out; the Turners are good friends and certainly won’t take offense.”

Even though he was sure the words were meant to comfort them, they only strengthened Blaine’s resolve to keep himself out of the way, his grin widening as he nodded his understanding. “Yeah. I understand, dad. Just go and have fun; I don’t want to hold anyone’s Christmas back.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice!” Cooper announced loudly with a wink, waving at Blaine before he stepped outside and into the cold.

“There’s chicken noodle left over from lunch, honey, just reheat it in the microwave if you’re hungry.”

“ _Mom_.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going.”

Once the door was shut with a final click, Blaine headed back to his room, turning on a couple of his lamps and peeking out his window, watching the family car back out of the garage before it drove off down the street. It was a relief to watch them go, even as Blaine felt a slight pang of loneliness in his heart as well, the house now starkly silent, making it possible for him to hear the slow, steady beat of his heart.

Flopping back on his bed, Blaine reached for his phone, turning it on and starting to scroll through his contacts. His fingers hovered over Kurt’s name for several seconds as Blaine worried his lower lip, but a quick glance at the hour and he found that he couldn’t.

Couldn’t text, couldn’t call, couldn’t lie and couldn’t share everything that he felt.

He let the phone fall back on his sheets, hands moving up to thread through his hair, tugging sharply until his head began to hurt.

* * *

_December 25th, 2011, 9:26 PM_

Quinn’s brow arched as soon as she opened the door, but the expression she wore wasn’t unkind so much as it seemed surprised by who stood in front of her.

“I’m sorry for interrupting your Christmas evening,” Kurt said, keeping his voice low as he nervously glanced further inside her house, not sure if he was interrupting anything important. Though he wasn’t at all close to Quinn, he also had no desire to ruin anyone’s holiday. “I just—”

She raised her hand with a small shake of her head. “You’re not interrupting anything important. The only other person in the house is my mother, and believe me, she could use the presence of another person to keep her from kicking back the bottle one too many times.”

When Kurt didn’t reply, Quinn exhaled deeply. “After I had Beth, she was frozen out of some of her circles for abandoning my dad to come support me, and it was hard on her for a while. Now she does well most days, but holidays were always some of her favorite times of the year, and — anyway, it doesn’t matter. Come in.”

Staring briefly over his shoulder and out at the neighborhood, one of the nicest in Lima, Kurt pressed his lips tightly closed and nodded, slipping inside.

* * *

_December 25th, 2011, 10:54 PM_

For years, the bathroom had been the safest room to retreat to in any building. It wasn’t the place that people went to for comfort so much as need — or at least, that was what people assumed. The bathroom was too cramped and crowded a space for someone to appreciate the aesthetic of, and with how many people filtered in and out on a daily basis, one never really knew whether or not the place was clean. People stayed there for as brief a time as possible.

People, except for Blaine.

He’d spent the past couple of hours restlessly wandering through the house, mind refusing to pause, and eyes unable to focus. Everything cascaded past Blaine in a blur, and he felt like he was drowning, each breath of air far from enough to address the burning in the middle of his chest. It was too quiet — it was too _loud_ , the pounding in his ears persistent and almost sickly with its frequency. The wind howled outside, angry as it swept past the walls, and Blaine found himself wishing that it would carry him away, anywhere but here.

Everything around Blaine seemed to scorch into his eyes, sear against his skin, because it was vibrant and warm and his thoughts kept on plummeting, somewhere deep and unreachable, undefined and murky. He couldn’t have described any of his emotions in the moment. Despair was too active of a word; melancholy too calm. Meanwhile, he found himself stepping lower and lower still, even as he tried to keep himself busy around the house.

He lowered the thermostat, sweating from the exertion of cleaning up after the family.

Plates scrubbed, glasses wiped, everything spic and span, right down to the trash and recycling bins, lined up at the corner of the garage. He went into each one of the bedrooms, smoothing out the sheets, tucking them under the mattresses, all while still portraits stared at him from the walls, feeling anything but familiar.

He lowered the thermostat again, creating an excuse for the shivers running through his body.

Once the chores had slowed, Blaine surveyed his work, stepping from room to room in the house. In the past several years, very little had changed in each — perhaps pieces of furniture replaced here and there, pictures changed from their frames, but the colors of the walls were as Blaine remembered them being the very first day they moved in.

It would be fine. Everything would remain as it was, and the days would take no longer to pass than they had, and if one kept their eyes down on the ground, it was impossible to see how far ahead the path stretched in front of them.

Blaine walked directly past his reflection as he stepped into his bathroom, catching nothing but a blurred shadow to his side before he settled in the corner of the bathroom, seated on the cold hard tile and leaning back until his head was supported by the bathroom wall. He shivered again, his shoulders quaking before he clamped his hands down on them, crossing over his chest. His legs were awkwardly bent underneath him, leaving the seating position uneven, but Blaine could only focus on the shuddering of his body, eyes wide as he tried to calm the movement.

Only once he noticed that he was crying did Blaine realize how futile the effort was, hands sliding down to a gradual stop on top of his lap.

In here, no one would come looking for him. No one would raise doubts about his need to be there. No one would knock impatiently on the door, demanding that he get to his feet, no one would rap on the wall and demand that he look at the time. Seconds blended together, one after the other, a rare luxury.

Eventually, the shivers stopped, too. And he slept.

* * *

_December 25th, 2011, 9:37 PM_

“So why exactly are you here, Hummel? Somehow, I get the feeling that it’s not for my sparkling personality.”

Kurt’s eyes roved around Quinn’s room, shoulders squared with the unsuppressed surprise that he was allowed inside this inner sanctuary at all. It spoke volumes more than the perfectly pleated skirts that Quinn wore every day, and more than the once bright pink strands of her hair had. Potted flowers sat on her vanity, the branches of the plant carefully tended to and pruned. Schoolbooks and study guides sat on top of her bookshelf, arranged carefully by subject. Her bed was in the greater state of disarray, sheets thrown any which way, though they appeared clean.

“Yes, I’m sorry I didn’t clean up for your arrival,” she said wryly, interrupting his thoughts. “But you see, it was on such short notice, and on _Christmas_ at that.”

“I’m, I’m sorry for staring,” Kurt stammered quickly, blinking and shaking his head. “It’s just that your room isn’t what I was expecting.”

“Why? Because it’s not Cheerios paraphernalia everywhere?”

“Well, that and the fact that you have twice as many books as are required by the standard senior curriculum. I knew that you studied to keep yourself on the Cheerios, but this makes it look like you’re making a go for class valedictorian.”

Smiling thinly, Quinn crossed the room and settled onto the ottoman by her vanity, crossing both legs and arms primly as she stared Kurt in the eye. “While there’s still a good chance that I end up stuck in this town like ninety-five percent of the high school population, that doesn’t mean I won’t break my back trying to get out. There’s nothing for us here. The only way to escape is through a good education.”

Kurt frowned. “Quinn, you’re gorgeous and talented, and your grades are more than enough to get you out of Ohio.”

“Yeah, where?” Quinn asked, voice carrying a slight edge. “Because if the choice is between the University of Kentucky and Ohio State, I’m not sure the difference in tuition is worth it, if you catch my drift. My dad emptied my college funds.”

Startled, Kurt stepped forward, carefully seating himself on the edge of Quinn’s bed. “Quinn, isn’t that illegal?”

“My dad handled all of the money in the marriage. Trust me, he worked in ways to guarantee control over those accounts a long time ago,” she said, tone short. “Now, are you going to tell me why you’re here or are you going to continue trying to make sense out of the decades my mom and I have spent living under my father’s thumb?”

Cringing, Kurt shook his head quickly, cheeks flooding in embarrassment. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I’m actually here to talk about—”

“Blaine?” Quinn supplied, nearly rolling her eyes.

“How’d you guess?” Kurt asked, smiling self-deprecatingly.

“You know, I almost wish that someone at the school was working so hard to get to the root of my problems. There’s no way Anderson can claim that no one cares when you’re nipping at his ankles like a lovelorn puppy,” Quinn remarked, leaning back against her vanity, resting her chin delicately in the palm of her hand. “I thought things were better between the two of you?”

“They are,” Kurt clarified quickly, chest tightening uncomfortably at Quinn’s words, which made it all too easy for Kurt to doubt his own motivations in helping Blaine. Hadn’t Quinn been through just as much, in her way?

If Kurt was so intent on aiding Blaine, did that mean that he saw Blaine as the weaker of the two?

“Blaine and I are friends now, but I think we both know that being friends doesn’t mean he’s about to come out spilling all of his secrets and telling me what he needs in order to feel better. Sometimes, I don’t even think he knows himself what to do, or what he needs. So I thought maybe you had more insight.”

Quinn’s eyes narrowed slightly, though her expression softened in contrast. Voice lowered, she shook her head. “You saw what I put him through. What makes you think I have any idea what to do?”

“You’ve known him for longer than I have.”

“That doesn’t mean I understand him,” Quinn said, guarded as she pulled herself up, arms neatly crossing over her chest, shoulders slightly bowed.

Kurt’s face flushed hotly in frustration as he stood to his feet. “Oh come on, Fabray. You were the one who warned me to give him space and to stay away when he needed it most. Don’t use the fact that he’s no longer dating you as some kind of excuse to shrug off the responsibility of helping him. He’s helped you so much already. Shouldn’t you give a bit back?”

“What would you have me _do?_ ” Quinn asked, brows furrowed. “Whenever I see him, he’s either ready to help me out with Beth, or on my doorstep to try and reaffirm his sexuality.” Kurt felt his chest squeeze. “I help him where I can, Kurt, but it’s not like I can force him to get better.”

Furious, Kurt dug through the messenger bag he’d brought along, pulling out articles and that book Rachel had shown him, the one that he never planned on returning to the library. He dropped the pile heavily on Quinn’s desk, pointing in its direction.

“Did you know about any of this?” he asked quietly.

Staring at him in surprise, Quinn gave the pile a nervous look, but seemed to refuse to keep her gaze on it for long.

“ _Read_ it, Quinn, and tell me if you ever knew about _any_ of this. Tell me if my assumptions are too crazy right now,” Kurt instructed, picking the book off of the pile and holding it out directly in front of Quinn’s face. “ _Please_.”

He lowered it slightly when her shoulders start to shake.

“Quinn?”

“I’m sorry.”

Blanching, Kurt quickly tucked the book away, lowering himself down onto his knees and trying to get a better look at Quinn’s face as she hid behind her hands. He was startled to notice that she had begun to cry.

“Quinn, I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything. I’m sorry.” Hesitantly, he reached a hand out, resting it against the crook of Quinn’s elbow and rubbing gently.

Gradually, Quinn lowered her hands, sniffling and staring above Kurt’s head instead of looking directly at him. “No, you’re right to point out how little I’ve done for him. You are. I knew that something had happened to him in the past — maybe I never found that book, but Blaine spent enough nights over that I could tell something had happened. But I thought, maybe I could help him get past it. Better than sending him to some terrible counselor that might only make things worse. If you only knew how incompetent some of them can be—”

She broke off then, covering her face again with a hand, cheeks hot with shame. Kurt lowered his hand down to her knee, rubbing rhythmically as Quinn tried to even her breath.

“We need to go to someone about this, Quinn. We need to have Blaine be willing to see someone. I think… we’re in over our heads,” Kurt admitted, feeling his heart twist at the thought. The last thing he wanted was to let Blaine out of his sight.

But maybe there were some battles that none of them could fight for him.

* * *

_December 26th, 2011, 12:21 AM_

The party had still been going strong when Cooper left, glad for his decision to go in a separate car from his parents, who were still drinking and chatting away with the crowd. The company had been good, the food even better, but there was something which didn’t sit well in Cooper’s mind about spending the entire evening away from his little brother.

Especially when it felt like Blaine was going through some serious growing pains as of late.

Cooper knew very well that he hadn’t been the most attentive brother over the years. Frankly, he was surprised that Blaine seemed so open to listening to him during this visit; more often, the two brothers found themselves at an impasse, their aspirations too different, ages too distant. Cooper was never sure how to bridge the gap between them, but he knew this much — this Christmas was an opportunity he couldn’t let slip through his fingers.

Cigars and scotch be damned.

“Blaine?” Cooper called out, shivering as he shrugged off his thick cashmere coat, hanging it in the closet as he carefully scuffed his boots against the doormat, clearing the snow. “Blaine, mom and dad are still at the party, but I thought I’d get back a little early to keep you company. Maybe we can break open a bottle of Dom before they catch us rooting through the wine cellar. What do you think?”

No response. Maybe Blaine had done exactly as he suggested earlier and gone to bed early. Cooper felt a slight twinge of remorse over the idea of waking his little brother up from slumber — but not enough to change his mind.

“Wow, it’s cold in here,” he muttered to himself, squinting at the thermostat, then glancing over the spotlessness of the kitchen and parlor. “I think you accidentally knocked the temp down while you were cleaning up, squirt.” Cooper turned the heat back up, hearing the vents roar to life before he headed back down the hall to climb the stairs to the second floor.

Still quiet. Did Blaine manage to magically bypass the Anderson men gene of snoring through the night? Good for him.

“Hey, squirt.”

He flipped on the switch in Blaine’s room, taken aback upon realizing that it was empty, bed made and every last pillow in place. Though there was no reason to panic, Cooper found his pulse quickening as he stepped inside.

“Did you sneak off to someone else’s house?” Cooper murmured, hands on his hips. “Even I have to admit, that’d be impressive.”

His eyes scanned the room again.

Blaine’s phone was still on the nightstand.

Picking it up, Cooper tried in vain to get through the lock screen, none of the family birthdays matching the actual passcode. He groaned, slumping back on the bed once more and rubbing at his eyes. If Blaine went out to enjoy himself, great — but if their parents found out about the absence, he was bound to be grounded for months at least.

“Guess little brothers always get to be a pain.”

In the distance, he heard a sneeze.

Eyes flying open, Cooper sat up, gazing in the direction of the sound.

Blaine’s bathroom.

Still grasping Blaine’s phone tightly in his hand, Cooper jiggled the handle of the bathroom door, pounding with the corner of the phone. “Blaine? _Blaine_ , are you in there?”

A slam of his shoulder finally opened the door, and light from Blaine’s bedroom streamed in to reveal a small form in the corner, curled up against the tub.

“ _Blaine_.”

His skin was cold to the touch, tinged with blue even through the warm glow of the bedroom lights, and Cooper immediately brought Blaine’s body as close as possible to his chest, arms wrapping tightly around his form even as he tried to shield Blaine from any overly jarring movement. Cold. Almost freezing.

“Blaine, please say something, please say _anything_ , please.”

Panicked, Cooper scanned the room, and catching sight of the tub, he leaned over to start the water, turning it all the way to the left. His face felt numb.

Gradually, the body in his arms began to stir.

“ _Blaine_.”

“Cooper?”

It was like a dam breaking in his chest, emotions spilling everywhere as Cooper grabbed more tightly onto his little brother, grasping desperately at the fabric.

“Yeah,” he rasped, voice wavering. “It’s me. It’s Cooper. God, Blaine, what were you _thinking?_ You could have — you didn’t take anything, did you? I’m calling an ambulance.”

Belatedly, as Cooper reached for Blaine’s phone, he realized that his body was not the only one shuddering now, and he sobbed anew when Blaine’s hand weakly hooked on the fabric of Cooper’s sweater. Blaine shook his head.

“I didn’t take anything,” Blaine said, his voice wet. “I swear, I wasn’t trying to kill myself, I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but — I just wanted to sleep, Cooper. I just wanted to sleep and be done. I’m.”

Cooper squeezed his eyes shut, dropping Blaine’s phone with a clatter, and tried to hold Blaine as closely as possible.

“I’m sorry.”


End file.
